


i'm told a lot these days

by myriadus



Category: The Creatures | Cow Chop RPF
Genre: Acceptance, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chance Meetings, Complete, Dark Comedy, First Dates, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Grim Reapers, M/M, Mild Gore, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2018-12-09 11:13:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 126,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11667966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myriadus/pseuds/myriadus
Summary: James wasn't expecting to die so young, that's for sure. He wasn't expecting to die violently, either. He sure as hell wasn't expecting to be inducted into a ragtag family of grim reapers instead of going to... well, wherever it is dead people go. He wasn't expecting to become a grim reaper himself, or lose everything and everyone he loved, he wasn't expecting to have his entire world turned upside down in one day. James wasn't expecting alotof things, but they happened anyway.He definitely wasn't expecting to accidentally fall in love with someone whose soul he was supposed to reap, though.Yeah. That one took him by surprise.(adead like menovahd au)





	1. have you heard the news that you're dead?

**Author's Note:**

> whew boy! this has been a heck of a long adventure to write so far, and i really hope the hard work pays off and you fine folks enjoy it. this is going to start off a little slow, but it'll pick up soon, i promise. thanks to everyone who gives it a chance! /o/
> 
>  **10/30/17:** so [ragecutie](ragecutie.tumblr.com) made a _video edit_ for this fic and made me shed REAL TEARS IN MY REAL LIFE and it's the best thing i've ever seen [please go watch it right now](https://ragecutie.tumblr.com/post/166959062564/this-edit-is-based-on-myriadus-fic-im-told-a)!!!!!!! oh my god. ;-;
> 
>  **11/27/17:** and now there's also [some great fanart](http://loveyboyslovin.tumblr.com/post/171167909320/sippingandshipping-im-told-a-lot-these-days-by)!!!! ;-;

James wakes up with a strangled scream, bolting upright.

“Jesus Christ,” the man standing next to him says, sounding exasperated, “lower your fucking voice. You’re fine.”

It takes a couple of seconds, but then James is furiously patting his chest, his legs, his arms, his face. He was lying on the ground, whereas only a couple of seconds ago he’d been running. He’d assumed he had been, anyway. He doesn’t quite remember. Everything seems to be in working order when he takes a quick mental catalogue of himself. Everything, at least, up to the point where his mind goes blank.

The last thing he distinctly remembers is jogging to work, dodging past people because he was running late. There were a lot of people on the street, and he’d tripped, been caught by a kind stranger who’d asked him if he was okay and. And then… screaming? A sound like thunder roaring in his ears. Sparks of lightning, the taste of copper on his tongue. Black.

“What the fuck,” James says out loud. “What the _fuck_?”

“Oh, good,” the man continues, crouching down next to him. James looks over at him, feeling confusion bubbling thick and uncomfortable in the pit of his stomach. “You’re starting to remember words. How are you feeling, James? Any tickles, any aches? Everything in one piece?”

Above them, a wire strung between two posts sparks, and James startles.

“Whoa, whoa. _Whoa._ Who the fuck are you?” he demands shakily, ignoring the questions, hands still spread against his own chest. There’s a distinct feeling of _wrong_ reverberating there, where his heartbeat ought to be. Around them, people are screaming now, and there are sirens in the distance. Footsteps echo off the pavement as people run past him, seemingly indifferent to the fact that he’s sitting on the ground. His bag's missing. That's the next thing that registers in James's mind: his bag, his phone, his wallet. All gone when he starts patting the pockets of his jacket.

“Your new boss,” the man replies simply, and holds out a hand. “C’mon. Get up.”

He looks up, eyes the man’s hand warily— _new boss_?—but another wail of sirens catches his attention again and he snaps his head in that direction. He’s breathing too hard, eyes darting between people as they rush past, and then he turns to watch as ambulances pull up, followed by a fire engine. They’re loud, lights whirring angrily in the mid-morning air and paramedics darting out to run past. James watches them, twists around on the ground to watch as they hurry towards a throng of people circled around something on the sidewalk. Everyone's talking at once, some people look like they're trying to snap pictures.

He’s muddled, and the man still standing next to him is no help whatsoever. He only watches James with one eyebrow quirked, before his gaze lifts to the crowd and understanding begins to dawn on his face. Again he offers his hand, this time with a flick of his chin, and after another long moment of nervous contemplation, James finally takes it. He’s hauled to his feet, the man more muscular than he was expecting. He’s brushed off, leather jacket straightened, all the while feeling inexplicably like a child being put together for school.

Suddenly uncomfortable, he bats the man’s hands away, backing up and scowling. “Okay, okay, back off, man. What the fuck.”

The man shrugs at him.

“Just helping out is all.”

“Yeah, hey, quick thing though,” James says, and points. “Fuck you, and fuck this. I’m—I’m going to work. I’m already fucking late.” He takes a step back, watches as the man lifts both eyebrows. James can feel anxiety sending his blood to boiling, can feel how it tingles at the tips of his fingers. There's something off, there's... there’s still a sense of _wrong,_ and he wants it gone. “So. Okay, yeah. Bye.”

“Okay,” the man says, but there’s a grin on his face that James can’t identify. James shakes himself off once, unnerved. What the fuck is this dude’s problem, anyway? He has half a mind to go off, and nearly does, but instead he turns on his heel and immediately gets a faceful of a woman that walks right through him.

For one long, blessed moment, James doesn’t really acknowledge what just happened. Sure, the woman had passed right through his fucking body as if he were made of clouds, or mist, or, or fucking smoke, whatever. Maybe he bonked his head off the pavement harder than he thought he did, or maybe he has some sort of contact high from the weed he’d smelled on the sidewalk earlier. Fuck, maybe he’s actually dreaming this whole thing, and he’s still sleeping soundly in his bed, not late for work and being hounded by some weird dude who can apparently only communicate in cryptic comments and slick grins. Fuck him.

But then it does catch up with him, and his voice raises up about an octave.

“What the _fuck_!” His voice is unbearably close to a shriek. “Ohhh, what the fuck, what the fuck, man, wh—”

“Okay, okay, seriously. Stop screaming. I shouldn’t have to say this twice.”

The man is next to him in a second, gripping one shoulder in a surprisingly strong hold. James stares at him, probably wild in the eyes, and immediately bats him away before he can open his mouth and say anything else. He backs away like a cornered animal, and another person walks right through him. It’s enough of a shock that James lets out another loud yelp, furiously patting at himself as his body wisps for a second and then goes back to being solid as if it never happened. It reminds him of vapor, and it feels _wrong._

Oh God, he’s seen this in movies. Oh no.

“James,” the man says, holding hands up placatingly while James starts to wig the hell out. “Calm down. Try to breathe, and then try to say one entire sentence that doesn’t include the word _fuck_.”

James tries to say something but instead a sort of garbled string of different sounds comes out, and the man has to grab him by the shoulders again and straighten him when he sways. The pit that’s been growing in James’s stomach since he first woke up on the ground has expanded into a black hole of terror and anxiety, swirling thick like tar and making him sick.

“I think I might throw up,” he finally warbles hoarsely, and the guy looks at him with a bit of caution.

“Don’t do that,” he says slowly, eyebrows furrowed. “That’s not the kind of sentence I wanted you to say.”

“I’m dead,” James says, chokes it out of himself, and he must look like a mess of a human being, wild-eyed and pale with fear. He’s hoping that by saying it out loud he’ll either wake up, and that’ll be the end of it, or this guy is going to laugh at him and tell him that no, no of course he’s not dead, what are you talking about, James? If he says the words out loud, that makes them untrue.

He doesn't know why, in the back of his mind, sour on the roof of his mouth, he already  _knows_ that he's dead, but. Fuck.  _Fuck._ He can't be dead. This can't be how his life ends. It can't.

“...yeah,” the man says after a second or two. “You’re dead.”

They stare at each other, unblinkingly, unfalteringly, and then James says something that, in retrospect, was _really goddamn embarrassing._

“That’s not _fair!_ ”

“Oh, good, this is more what I’m used to,” the man replies, and it sounds cheerful as he lowers his arms again, crosses them over his chest so that even under the jacket James can see muscles bunching. “Yeah, no. It’s super not fair. You’re… what, twenty-four?”

“Twenty- _five,_ ” James corrects loudly and shrilly, pointing a finger again. “I’m twenty-fucking-five years old and you’re about to come up to me, and, and tell me that I’m _dead,_ and—what even happened? How am I dead? How did I die, I was just— I was walking to work! I was literally just _walking to work_! This isn’t actually happening, this _cannot actually be happening_ —”

“It’s happening,” the man says over him, and James stutters angrily into silence. “Didn’t you wonder what the ambulance was for?”

James cranes his neck to look behind them, where the crowd has still gathered, but they're all starting to part as the paramedics push slowly through. They’re carrying a stretcher, and on the stretcher is a black body bag, and it looks so very much like an episode of _Law and Order_ that James isn’t really able to connect the dots immediately. It seems like another world, like he’s staring at someone else’s life through a TV screen, except—

“Is that... is that  _my body_?”

His stomach swoops as the paramedics pass them, don’t even spare either of them a second glance. But then another one passes and he has James’s bag slung over one shoulder, clambering into the ambulance before the doors shut behind them. And then they leave, just like that. Like James’s entire life hasn’t just completely, literally ended. Like it’s just another day. He stares at the ambulance as it drives away, and he's wide-eyed and stunned. When he turns back to where the police are starting to direct people away from that part of the sidewalk, he can feel the world spinning.

“Yeah,” the man says, sort of bluntly. “They’re taking you to the morgue. _God,_ your voice is loud.”

“What—” He can’t even speak for a moment, just utterly taken aback. “What _happened_?”

The man points up.

“Snapped power line,” he says easily, and James follows his finger to see where, indeed, a cable has disconnected from the pole and fallen down to the sidewalk. It explains why the police are ushering people away, and it explains why everyone had been screaming, and James is suddenly immensely glad that he doesn’t remember anything before waking up. “It fell and hit you right upside the head. You were killed instantly. And your hair," he chuckles suddenly, "well, it was something else, let me tell you.”

James glares at him.

“You’re not exactly the fuckin’ model of tact, are you?”

To his surprise, the man grins almost sheepishly, hands in his pockets.

“Nope. Sorry, kid. I’m not exactly used to this kind of thing.” He shrugs. “Usually I just usher the newly dead onto the other side and then go about my business like usual. But that’s not where you’re heading, so I’m sort of playing it by ear.”

James can feel his eyes widening, heart pounding, and he takes a step back.

“Wait a se—you _dick,_ you’re sending me to _Hell_?” 

Not the smartest move, maybe, but he's going to start running if the answer to that question is yes. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” is the prompt reply, and the man gestures for James to follow as he starts to walk down the street, passing James as he does so. “You’re not that interesting. No, no, we’re just dead. It’s a lot more boring. Come on.”

“Wait,” James says, not moving, “wait, wait, wait. I have questions! Hold up!”

“I have answers,” the man says over his shoulder, squints in the sun. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

James stands frozen on the sidewalk for a long moment, staring between the gaggle of people that’s started to scatter slowly as the police set up yellow tape, thick bold **_DO NOT CROSS_** tape where he... where he died. He looks up, stares at the line above him that sparks, and then at the retreating back of the only person who probably has any kind of explanation for… for whatever the fuck is going on here.

Part of him wants to retreat, wants to bolt like a scared animal and run back to his apartment, back to his dog and his computer and his boring ass life where he goes to work, goes home, plays some games, goes to sleep, wash rinse and repeat. He wants to imagine that he didn’t _die,_ and maybe if he hadn’t been walked through like a hologram he would’ve done that. He would’ve gone home, or at least tried to. There are too many thoughts whirling through his head, thoughts of _what is my mom going to do_ and _who’s going to take care of Ein_ and _what about my fucking_ life—

He doesn’t know.

It really doesn’t feel fair, not in the slightest. Sure, he wasn’t exactly the best person in the world but damn, he’d at least _tried,_ hadn’t he? He’d tried to be kind, tried to be fun-loving and generous, loved his dog and his mom and his friends. He got into arguments sometimes and yeah, he’s probably louder than necessary but how in the fuck does that translate to dying at twenty-five years old? Where did he go wrong? He looks down at his hands, stares at the swirls of color from his tattoos poking out past his sleeves. He wasn't even finished with those. He still had so much left to  _do._

And now. Now he’s fucking _dead._ All because he forgot to set his alarm and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Finally, he throws his hands up in defeat and then takes off after the man.

“Hey. Hey!”

“Nice of you to join me,” the man says easily, staring at him out of the corner of his eyes and doing literally nothing to make it easier for James to catch up.

“Shut up. _Shut up._ What do you mean, dead? How am I dead if I’m talking to you?” he asks as soon as he falls in step, and if the guy takes umbrage to his rudeness, he says nothing about it. They both stop on the corner as cars pass, and it’s kind of hilarious in a numb way how the man presses the button for the crosswalk. Life still goes on, somehow, even though James is fucking _dead._ God.

“We’re undead, I guess,” the man says contemplatively after a moment.

“What, like a zombie?”

The sigh he gets in return for that one is long-suffering, and accompanied by an eyeroll.

“Do you _feel_ like a zombie?”

“...fine. So you’re,” James struggles for a second, trying to put his thoughts into words. Around them, the world bustles on, car horns beeping and people talking loudly into their phones, and nobody seems to care that he’s died. “You’re not an… angel?”

To his shock, the man tilts his head back and starts laughing, clapping his hands as he does so.

“Oh, no, nonono,” he says between sharp giggles, holding his stomach as they start to taper off. “No, I’m—heh, I’m not an angel. Not by a long shot, no.”

The light changes, and as the bustle of people start to cross the street, James finds himself taken aback a little. The man continues to walk, following the crowd as they move, and James trails after him. There’s a point in every conversation where neither participant has anything to say, and right now James wishes this wasn’t it. He has questions, but doesn't know how to voice them. So instead he just trails after this stranger, and the pit in his stomach swirls unpleasantly. He’s fucking dead. It doesn’t necessarily feel real, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do when reality sinks in. Maybe it would be easier to swallow if he wasn’t still walking and talking and breathing— is he still breathing?

He nearly snorts as he takes a deep breath, smells car emissions and rubber and the metallic scent of a big city, and that makes him blink as he looks around at new, unfamiliar territory. He can’t recall ever being in this part of town before, but then he’s only recently started coming to the city once he got that stupid office job.

Job. He thinks back to what the man had initially said. _Your new boss_.

“Okay,” James says finally, falling back into step. “Okay, then, so... who, who are you, exactly?”

“Brett,” the man says, short and to the point, but when he turns to look at James out of the corner of his eye, there’s something sly there. He seems pleased that James has rejoined the conversation. “I’m a grim reaper. And congratulations, now you are, too.”

James stares at him. One question answered, a million new ones swirling around in his head until he feels dizzy. He gets a sudden picture of himself dressed in a black robe with a pointy hood, holding a scythe. Oh god, his _face,_ is he a fucking skeleton? He immediately clutches at his cheeks and blessedly finds skin there.

“... _ **what.**_ ”

“You’re a grim reaper.” The man—Brett—shrugs his shoulders again. “I’m a grim reaper. There’s a bunch of us, and we are all… you guessed it, grim reapers. Welcome to the life. Death. Whatever. Ah, finally.”

Absolutely bewildered, James looks up to find that they’re standing in front of a little brick diner nestled in between some of the smaller buildings, homey-looking and quaint, with the words _Der Waffle Haus_ written overtop a bright yellow neon waffle. He wrinkles his nose at it, gaudy as it is, and it’s only the tinkle of the bell on the door that catches his attention. Brett’s already walked inside, seemingly not giving a single fuck about whether James comes with him or just books it, and after a moment of considering the latter he shoves the door open and steps inside.

“Do you just say cryptic things to people and then walk away? Is that your thing?” James says a little angrily, jogging back up to him as Brett scans the restaurant for a moment. It’s a fairly normal sized diner; lots of green booths and wooden frames both connecting the tables and keeping them separated. There are more than a few tables seated, and there's the distinct chatter of a breakfast joint early in the morning. Brett must find whatever it is he’s looking for, though, because his eyes light up.

“Occasionally,” he answers, and gestures again for James to follow him. “Come on. Hungry?”

James thinks back to when he had first woken up, less then half an hour ago when the world still made sense. He’d managed to feed his dog, but that’s about as far as he got before he was hobbling out his door with one shoe on. He wasn’t even aware dead people—or, well, _reapers_?—could get hungry, but then he also doesn’t know a damn thing about any of this in general. He wants some fucking answers, but then he gets a whiff of pancakes and syrup.

Yeah. He’s actually really hungry.

“Maybe,” is his answer, trailing after Brett.

“I figured,” Brett says, and then stops at a table with two people already sitting there, who both look up from their breakfasts. “Hello, boys.”

“‘Lo,” says the younger kid through a mouthful of eggs. He doesn't look a day over nineteen, but he’s got to be almost a foot taller than the guy sitting next to him. That one looks about James's age, and he's got lots of thick brown hair crammed under a hat. He cranes his neck to look at James, and then back at Brett.

“Where’s Aron?” he asks, eyebrows coming together.

Shrugging off his jacket, Brett jabs a thumb behind him at James, who in return raises his own eyebrows in confusion. He feels like he’s been put on the spot, and when both sets of eyes look over at him, he feels his shoulders tightening defensively.

“Meet the new Aron,” Brett says, and then slides into the booth across from the others. Once he’s settled he pats his hand down on the cushion a few times. James eyes him warily. “Sit down, James. Don’t be shy.”

Cautiously, James does so, still feeling on edge.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” the second guy is groaning, leaning back with his palms digging into his eyes. “You mean to tell me he did it? What a lucky fuck.”

The first one swallows and reaches for a glass of water, taking a deep drink before he says, a lot clearer, “I’m pretty sure he still owed me money, too.”

“James,” Brett says, pointing at each as he introduces them, “this is Trevor—” big guy, “—and Joe.” Little guy. “Boys, meet James.”

“...hi,” James says stupidly, and they both give some kind of awkward salute before busying themselves with their breakfast again. James looks between the two of them, still confused, and then turns to Brett, who’s preoccupied with looking around for a server. It’s fucking strange. This morning he was scratching Ein behind her ears before running out the door, totally resigned to a dumb desk job and spending all his free time playing video games, and now suddenly he’s sitting in some weird little diner surrounded by weird people, and he’s apparently dead. He hopes his mom remembers Ein. Fuck.

“So, how did you die?”

James blinks, looks over to find that Trevor’s staring at him curiously.

“Oh.” He glances over at Brett before answering. “Uh. I guess a power line fell on me.”

Trevor shrugs noncommittally and then tucks back into his hash browns, but Joe makes a face.

“Yikes. Sorry to hear that, man.” For the first time, someone sounds appropriately sympathetic, and as Joe continues, James finally unclenches his shoulders, just a little. “Welcome to the family, though. It’s alright. There’s a few more of us, but they’re the afternoon shift.”

“Okay,” James says weakly. “And we’re the… morning shift?”

Joe nods, takes a sip of orange juice while James runs that through his head, rubbing at his temples.

“Morning shift for…”

“Reaping,” Brett says distractedly, and then perks up as one of the servers finally notices them and makes her way over. “Thank God. I was about to eat one of you.”

“Gay,” Trevor says under his breath, grinning, and Brett shoots him a glare before smiling politely up at the server.

 _Reaping._ James presses both of his palms hard into his closed eyes and pushes until there are spots dancing across his vision. He has no idea what the fuck that means. He doesn’t understand this morning shift business, or this, this fucking restaurant, doesn’t understand why he’s sitting inn this fucking booth with his entire life turned upside. Is it even his life anymore? Is it his… afterlife? His death? What the fuck.

“And you?”

It hits him, then. What is he supposed to do. He can’t go back to his apartment if he’s _dead,_ how would he even pay rent? How would he be able to even cash a check? He can’t go back to his job. He’s dead. Oh, holy fuck, he’s dead. Fuck. It keeps coming back to him like a bolt of lightning every time he thinks he’s forgotten.

“James,” Brett says, and pokes him in the side. “What do you want for breakfast?”

James lowers his hands instantly, startled. Everyone’s looking at him, including the server. He stares up at her for a moment, mouth open, and when she raises an eyebrow at him it’s clearly with _is this guy high or just stupid_ running through her head.

“Uh,” he says, panicking, because _what the fuck, she can see him?_ before Brett says loudly, “he’ll just have the special. Sorry. He’s new. Not used to being up so early.”

Trevor snickers. It’s clear that the waitress wants to roll her eyes as she writes something on her notepad, and as soon as she’s gone James rounds on Brett with a hissed, “what the _fuck._ ”

“You’re a reaper now,” Brett says easily, and reaches over to snatch a piece of toast off Trevor’s plate, to loud protest. “Once you joined the ranks of the undead, you became visible again. She can see you, and so can everyone else. There’s a lot of weird rules to this whole thing, so if you have questions you’d better start asking them now. We’ve got the whole day ahead of us.”

“I thought you said I was dead!” James is struggling to keep his voice down. “Now you’re suddenly telling me that people can see me? Are they still going to walk through me? Or, or recognize me? Seriously, what the _fuck_ is going on? What kind of crooked fuckin’ set-up is this!”

The other three look at each other for a moment, but Brett just holds up a hand.

“Okay. I get that you’re confused—”

“Hell yeah I’m fucking confused!”

“—and it’s been twenty some-odd years since we’ve had a new guy, so cut us some slack,” Brett continues, taking it in stride. “How did you think any of us ordered food, if they can’t see us?” He gestures at Joe and Trevor, at himself, at James. “Don’t ask me how that whole thing works, because I don’t know. But communicating with the living is a pretty big part of our job. It would be kind of stupid if we couldn’t.”

“Did anyone talk to you right before you died?” Joe supplies helpfully, leaning forward with his voice a bit hushed to avoid eavesdroppers. “Maybe, like, an Asian guy with glasses?”

“I don’t fucking know,” James starts to say, but then pauses. Yeah. He’d tripped, trying to run and still dodge around other people, and someone had caught his arm. Thinking back on that moment now, James realizes that it _had_ been an Asian guy with glasses, who’d asked him if he was alright and then patted his back a couple of times and wished him well. “Fuck. Yeah?”

“That was Aron.” Trevor shrugs his shoulders, as if this should all be coming to James naturally. James can’t decide if he likes this kid or not. “He worked with us for a long time, but now you get to take over for him. That’s how it works, I guess. Ask Brett. He knows more about it.”

Brett nods, then turns and accepts two mugs from their waitress with a smile. As soon as she walks away Brett sets one down in front of James, turns the handle so that it’s facing him. It’s black coffee, steaming and smelling delicious enough to make James’s mouth water a little. He stares down at it, eyebrows together.

“Here’s the thing,” Brett says, reaching for some sweetener, and James looks back up at him as he speaks. “Every reaper gets a quota from the higher ups, okay? For every soul you take, that’s another check mark off your quota, and when you finally get all the checks, you get to move on to… I dunno. Wherever it is we go after this.”

“Heaven?”

“I genuinely have no idea.” James watches the little fountain of white as Brett pours a couple Splendas into his coffee and stirs. “And before you ask, no, no one knows what their quota is. Some people might get two, some people might get two million. Oh, fuck, that reminds me…”

Seemingly checking out of the conversation, Brett digs out a pen and a little leather-bound notebook from one of the inside pockets of his jacket, and then a small stack of yellow Post-Its.

“Two million,” James repeats weakly, watching, and then reaches for his own mug, more to steady his now shaking hands than anything else. “Okay.”

He doesn’t really know what else to say to that. He doesn’t even— taking a soul? _Taking a soul_? What the fuck does that even _mean_? Is he going to have to kill people? Does he get the big scythe, is he going to have to lob heads off and point silently at the portal to the other side while people cry and beg for their lives? Oh fuck. Sure, James laughed until he cried the time that Jordan ate shit falling down the stairs, or when they shaved Seamus bald, but he wouldn’t consider himself a fucking _sadist._ Like, he literally cannot kill a person. He cannot do that. Shit. _Shit._

There are too many thoughts whirling through his head at the same time, and it must show on his face because Joe leans forward, looking concerned.

“You okay, man?”

“Sure,” James says, and even he can hear the hysterical edge. He’s afraid to lift his mug any more for fear of spilling boiling hot coffee all over his hands. “Yeah, no, I’m good, dude. I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to puke,” Trevor says mildly.

“I’ve already asked him once not to.” Brett doesn’t look up from where he’s started to write on the Post-Its, reading off the notebook. “Politely, I might add.”

“Yeah, but I feel like I don't get your version of  _polite_ ,” Trevor replies, and James watches with mute fascination as he starts to stack the empty plates in front of himself and Joe, placing them towards the edge of the table. “Like, I dunno, like when you tell me to shut the fuck up, _please._ That’s not so polite.”

Brett unsticks the top Post-It with purpose and hands it to Trevor, an eyebrow raised.

“Shut the fuck up, _please._ ”

“You got it, boss.” Trevor takes the Post-It and salutes with it, throwing a twenty down on the table as he slides out of the booth. Once he’s up, he slips on some sunglasses, circular and purple. Before he leaves, though, he turns to James, waves vaguely before he leaves.

“Good luck, dude.”

James somehow manages to answer, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

The next Post-It goes to Joe, who takes it and folds it several times before slipping it into his pocket. He looks over sympathetically at James as he also throws down some money on the table before he leaves, also wishes him good luck. He’s even smaller than he looked sitting in the booth, but his kindness is genuine, and if James could feel appreciation right now, that’s what it’d be. James watches him go, feeling awkward, feeling like he’s too heavy to move.

Their waitress comes back with their plates, asks them if they need anything else as she picks up the empty ones and the money Joe and Trevor had left behind.

“Nope,” Brett says, and hands her some money as well. “His bill’s on me, no change. Thanks.”

She takes the money and nods; she must be used to their merry little band of misfits, because she doesn’t question if they need anything else. As soon as she’s gone, James sets down the still-full mug and then picks up his fork, not feeling very hungry.

“Thanks,” he mutters hoarsely, and pokes at the eggs on his plate. It’s a fairly simple little breakfast; scrambled eggs with bacon and some toast, but while he had been pretty hungry when they’d first come inside, now he finds he’s really not anymore. The smell reminds him of childhood, of scrambled eggs and ketchup on the weekend before Saturday morning cartoons. The pit in his stomach hasn’t gone away, and then, to his absolute horror, tears start to gather in the corner of his eyes and he puts down the fork again. Fuck.

“You’re welcome,” Brett says, distracted as he finishes up copying whatever what was in the notebook and putting it away again. “I’m not going to pay for your breakfast forever, though, so— oh. Oh, fuck. Are you crying?”

James wants to say no and salvage his manliness but it’s pretty much too late for that. He shoves his forearm hard against the bridge of his nose and hopes that his jacket can at least hide some of the tears until he can get them under control. He doesn’t want to cry, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to do it in front of Brett, but it’s like he can’t _stop._ His life’s gone completely out of control, and he’s pissed, and scared, and alone, and he’s fucking _upset._

So... yeah. He’s crying.

“Hey,” Brett says, and to James’s shock, it’s soft. “Shit. I guess I’m— I said I wasn’t used to this, and I meant it.”

“I’m fine,” James mumbles, still with his arm pressed to his face, and then sniffs. He feels pathetic.

“You’re not fine. You’re dead.” Brett puts down his silverware and crosses his arms, rests them on the table so that he can carefully lean into James’s space. “Listen, the last time we got a new guy was Trevor, and that was in the early 90s, okay, and that was a _very_ different situation, so…” He falters, actually falters for a second. “...I guess I’m trying to say I’m sorry. Really.”

It’s a surprisingly earnest apology, and even though he only just met Brett about an hour ago, James gets the feeling that apologies aren’t easy to come by, so he takes it gratefully. The tears seem to have stopped, at least enough that he can lower his arm again, and Brett’s looking at him with concern when he glances over.

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” Brett continues, when he sees that James is paying attention. He sounds sincere, and James manages to look him in the eyes. “I really am. It sucks to die, especially when you’re still so young. But it is what it is, and this, specifically, is what it is now. There’s no getting around that. You’re stuck with us, for better or worse, and as far as a bunch of dead assholes go our little group isn’t so bad.” He leans back and turns back to his breakfast, picking up his fork again. “Alright. Enough of that. We’ve got a lot to do today. Eat.”

It’s an abrupt end to the conversation, but James just takes it in stride. Maybe that’s just how life’s going to be from now on. He’s still not feeling very hungry, but he still silently picks up his fork again and spears some eggs. They taste like rubber on his tongue, and he sniffles once more around his mouthful before swallowing. He wonders if his mom knows yet, when his friends will find out. The last time he and Jordan had spoken to each other, it had been a fight. James regrets that now, but he can only imagine how Jordan is going to feel.

Somehow, he manages to eat the entire plate, and as soon as he’s done Brett’s giving him a nudge in the side.

“Come on,” he says, shrugging on his jacket. “It’s your first day, so we’ve got a lot to do.”

Nonplussed, James slides out of the booth and straightens out his clothes, watches as Brett also stacks their plates the way Trevor had done and then claps James on the shoulder.

“Feeling better?”

James thinks on that, and decides to answer honestly.

“Not really.”

To his surprise, Brett chuckles, shoving his hands in his pockets as he looks James up and down.

“Well, you haven’t run for the hills yet—”

“Not like I didn’t want to,” James mutters, a tad bitterly.

“—but our next stop might make you a little queasy. Just going to warn you ahead of time.”

James blinks a couple of times, but starts to follow Brett as he heads towards the exit. It seems like he’s about to spend a lot of his time trailing after the older man, at least for the next couple of days as he gets used to this… this new job.

“Why? Where are we going?”

There’s an odd glint in Brett’s eyes as he holds the door open for him, as if he was hoping James was going to ask that question. James steps out into the bright sun, squinting, and he hears the tinkle of the bell again as Brett steps back up next to him.

“Actually,” he says, “we’re going to the morgue.”


	2. sometimes beginnings aren't so simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings for: mild gore, dead bodies, a (very brief) mention of child death, and an explicit death scene. dark comedy, indeed.
> 
> thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos on the first chapter! every single one brightened my day! :>
> 
>  **edit:** i now have [a tumblr](http://myriadus.tumblr.com) for my fic!

It’s really weird, seeing his own body.

Of course it’s not a situation he’d ever considered finding himself in. After all, what sane person daydreams about staring at their own dead corpse? Certainly not James. He mostly daydreamed about new games, or how wonderful his bed was going to be when he finally got off work and got to actually sleep.

But this is… not right. With every fiber of his being, it’s just _not right._

He’s lying on a table in a morgue, toe tag and all, with his hair fanned out underneath his head and his skin burned in places and his eyes totally lifeless. He can’t see where the powerline hit him; maybe it was on the back of the head. That’s one small relief in a day full of nothing but horrors. He can’t seem to stop staring at himself, like it’s all some kind of fucked up dream. Maybe at some point he could’ve still lied to himself, could’ve walked away from this and been able to convince himself that it wasn’t real.

But it’s him. There’s his sharp nose, his wild, untamed curls, Christ, even his tattoos. It’s fucking him up real bad, staring at himself naked on a table, and James finally has to take a step back and press a hand to his mouth to keep from throwing up. Oh, holy fuck.

“Sorry about him,” Brett says mildly to the coroner, who just shrugs. “You know these new kids at the academy, first time they see a dead body, they flip.”

“Shut up,” James warbles, finally squatting down to put his head between his knees.

“You’re doing twenty push-ups when we get back to camp, cadet,” Brett says sharply, clearly enjoying himself, and if James hadn’t heard Brett’s bullshit story about being a teacher at the local police academy (where in the fuck did he even get the badge?) he’d be beyond confused. He’s still confused, but at least it’s mostly because looking at your own dead goddamned body would throw anyone for a loop.

“Dunno why you’d want to see this one, though,” the coroner says, covering James’s body back up. “This poor bastard wasn’t murdered. Just had a powerline fall on his head.”

“Yikes,” Brett says blandly. “Well, we try to show them every flavor of death, not just the homicides. They’ve got to learn some time, right? And this one…” James manages to glare from where he’s still trying not to hyperventilate, or worse, pass out, “he’s got a weak stomach. Gotta make sure he gets used to the smell, you know how it is.”

Oh god, James hadn’t even considered the smell. It’s like… it’s almost like burnt pork.

“I’m gonna hurl,” he says bluntly, and forces himself to leave the room. He can hear Brett chuckling, thanking the coroner for his time as he leaves too, claps James on the shoulder while he leans an arm against the wall and just tries to breathe.

“Why would you do that?” James demands, a little shrilly. “Why the fuck— you’re a _sick man,_ you know that? You’re sick! What the fuck was any of that for, other than to be an _asshole?!_ ”

“Do you have any doubts anymore?” Brett asks calmly, taking the insults in stride. It’s like anything James says just slides off him, like he’s made of water, or the shit they make Slip ‘N Slides with. God. “Sometimes you need that wake-up call. If it makes you feel any better, Trevor actually _did_ puke when he saw his body.”

“Good for Trevor,” James snaps, holding his stomach now. The brick wall is cold against his forehead, and he takes several deep breaths while Brett watches on. He seriously needs a moment to pull himself together, and when Brett starts to walk back towards the stairs, James wobbles after him. He feels like gagging.

It’s only when they’re out in the sunlight again that it hits him.

“Hold up,” he says, and his voice is still higher than usual.

Brett sighs, looking to the sky for strength.

“Yes?”

James points to himself, then points at the building, then back at himself again, struggling for the words. It takes a second for them to form, but he manages. “How, how in the _fuck,_ how can I look at my own body and also be standing there, didn’t, didn’t that freak the dude out at all? I was standing _right there_!”

Brett’s eyebrows come together, and then go up as he says, “oh.”

“What is that, what is _oh,_ ” James demands, and keeps saying it as Brett nods to himself and then takes him by the shoulders, leads him towards one of the larger buildings. They’re still in the middle of the city, and as Brett pulls him along, he starts talking again.

“It would be pretty awkward if you still looked like yourself,” he says, and positions James in front of one of the reflective windows of a clothing store. James glares at him, but looks in the window nonetheless. “You still look like yourself to us— to _any_ reaper, I mean, and you look like yourself to the dead, but the living see… that.”

James blinks, and the stranger in the window blinks right back at him. He’s James’s height, James’s age, has the same clothes. He’s got the same tanned skin tone and he has hair pulled back into a bun too, but that’s where the similarities end. James leans forward, watching as his strange mirror counterpart does the same thing. His face is clean-shaven, his eyes are smaller and a lighter shade of brown, and he’s got higher cheekbones now. His hair is straight as a pin, and he has _bangs,_ little wisps of hair that frame his face. When James pushes up the sleeves of his jacket, all he sees on his arms is hair and nothing more.

“Oh, what the fuck,” he whispers, and touches his face. The stranger mimics the action, a look of shock on his face. “What the _fuck._ ”

“Super weird, right?” Brett looks the same, and that kind of freaks him out, but James can only stare at— at himself. At what he must look like to the rest of the world. “Yeah, it takes some time to get used to. Just wait until you forget and try to take a selfie or something. I’ve heard that gets a good laugh.”

“My face,” James says weakly. “Oh my god, my _face._ ”

“Yeah, that’s quite a mug,” Brett agrees, and then starts to lead him away by his shoulders while James is still clutching at his cheeks, horrified. He’s ugly now, too? On top of being dead, and being shoved into some kind of weird occupation where he’s got to kill people, now he looks like _this_? Is death not even a relief? “Stop having a crisis, James. Seriously. You look fine.”

“I’m ugly,” James says dramatically, pulling at his cheeks and groaning. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“You died today, if I remember correctly. You just saw _your own lifeless corpse_. Was this _really_ the breaking point?”

“The _worst day of my life_ ,” James repeats, with fervor, and Brett rolls his eyes as he continues to lead him away.

It’s getting closer to noon, judging by the bustle of people as the lunch hour starts. James groans once, letting Brett steer him over to a bench where the both of them can sit down. James can’t help but lean forward onto his knees, scrubbing wildly at his face for a couple of seconds and making huffing noises. His beard is still there, when he feels for it, and his hair's still curly when he touches his bun. Tattoos still on his arms. It’s the weirdest thing in the world, to know that you look completely different to the rest of the planet save for a few unlucky people stuck in the same fate.

Brett’s looking around at the crowds, and he claps his hands once to get James’s attention.

“Now,” he says, and his tone has turned businesslike enough that James looks over at him, finally letting go of his face. “Here’s where we start with the heavy stuff.”

James isn’t necessarily ready for the heavy stuff, and he’d also like to argue that the _heavy stuff_ probably came from when Brett, you know, _showed him his own dead body,_ but he figures that arguing probably isn’t going to get him anywhere anyway. For once in his life, he sits back quietly and just watches.

Brett reaches into his pocket and pulls out a yellow Post-It, like the ones he had given Trevor and Joe. He hands it to James, who takes it hesitantly and reads it over. It’s a scrawl, but it’s legible, and he squints.

 **D. Barber**  
**Corner of 8th and Harlem St.**  
**E.T.D. 12:28pm**

“What is this?”

“That,” Brett says, pointing, “is the time and place where we’re going to take some unlucky bastard’s soul.”

His stomach swoops. He remembers what Brett had said earlier, about quotas, and about taking souls, but now that he’s here in the moment he’s not sure if he’s ready for it. James stares at Brett nervously, and then looks back down at the Post-It. He turns it over, but there’s nothing on the other side; only more yellow and the strip of tape where it’s connected to his finger. Brett’s rustling next to him, and when James looks over again he’s pulled out the little leather bound notebook.

“Every morning we get a list of people,” he explains, brandishing. “Or, more accurately, _I_ get a list of people, and I get to pass them out to everyone else. Everyone in this notebook has to die by the end of the day, and then come tomorrow we’ll have a new list of people. Every day, until you hit your quota, that’s what you have to do.”

“Where do you get the list from, though?” James asks, confused

Brett’s grin is wry.

“I get a little manila envelope every day when I wake up in the morning. By a shadow person who shows up at my house.”

It’s absurd enough that James doesn’t believe him immediately, but after a second of squinting at him it becomes clear that Brett’s not joking around. Brett just stares at him, eyebrows raised, not a hint of a joke or lie in his expression, and James blinks at him.

“...you’re totally fucking with me.”

“I am not.”

James considers.

“Huh. Well. I guess that’s not the weirdest thing that’s happened to me today.”

“That’s the spirit,” Brett says, and he sounds so disgustingly proud of himself for the joke that James wrinkles his nose again and glares at him before a thought occurs to him.

“It’s not…” James can’t help but lower his voice, hushed as he leans forward. “I mean, it’s not, like… God, you know, is it?”

Brett snorts.

“Well, if it’s God, then good to know he signs all his memos with _Burnie._ ”

James leans back again, startled.

“I told you we weren’t angels, James,” Brett points out, and sighs as he tilts his head back to squint at the sky, speaking while he does so. “Angels don’t like getting their hands dirty. And anyway, if God’s the one calling all the shots, he’s got a sick sense of humor. I mean, really. Who signs off the end of someone’s life in a fuckin’ manila folder?”

Brett wasn’t joking when he said it was some heavy shit, and James hands back the Post-It, suddenly uncomfortable.

“I guess,” he mutters, and Brett looks over at him. James can see him considering.

“Well, back in the 40s, depending on where you worked as a reaper, they were written on the back of telegrams on the front line,” he says after a moment, and James looks at him, startled. His smile is wry as he looks back at the crowd. They’re both quiet for a long, long moment, until James finally bucks up the nerve and asks.

“So, uh. When… when did you die, then?”

Brett sighs again.

“Ever heard of a little thing called World War II?”

James feels terror in his gut, sudden, icy and sharp as a knife. “You’ve— you’ve been around for that long?”

Brett shrugs, mouth twisted into the age-old expression of bored resignation.

“Like I said, James, we don’t know how many souls we’re supposed to reap. Aron had only been around since… I want to say the 70s, so he had a pretty short time, all things considered. Joe’s been fucking around since sometime in the 50s and we’ve got a girl on the afternoon shift who’s been around since the 20s at least. It all depends.”

“Fuck,” James says out loud, because he doesn’t know what else to say to that. The 20s? Ninety fucking years of this shit? James didn’t even have plans for the next week before he got thrown into all this, and to suddenly realize that he could be around for ninety more years, never aging, watching everyone else he knows die off— fuck. He doesn’t like it. It makes him feel cold, and he wraps his arms around his midsection and shudders.

“That’s… that’s real fucked up, dude,” he admits quietly.

At that, Brett reaches into his pocket, searching for a moment before he pulls out another Post-It, which he then hands to James.

“Here.”

It’s crumbled up, but even before he’s flattened it out, James already knows what he’s going to find there. Slowly he reads the words, scans each individual letter with his eyes, traces every loop and swirl of Brett’s handwriting until he knows it’ll be committed to memory.

 **J. Wilson**  
**Middle of 5th Street**  
**E.T.D. 8:46am**

Condemnation, right there in black ink. James can only stare at it, pulled taut by his own shaking hands resting in his lap. Now he understands what Brett meant when he talked about signing someone’s life away.

This morning, Brett had written that memo, and this Aron guy had taken it, and just like that, at 8:46 in the morning, James’s life just… ended. In a burst of sparks and screaming, his entire life was swept out from under his feet and everything he’d ever known up to that point was just… irrelevant. And if Aron’s quota hadn’t run out when he took James’s soul, he would’ve guided James to the other side and then kept doing it over and over, just taking Post-Its and souls, day after day.

Only now James is going to be the poor sorry fuck to do it instead.

“Maybe it was… was a different J. Wilson, though,” James says quietly, staring down at the little yellow Post-It. It ruffles just slightly in the wind.

“Another J. Wilson who just _happened_ to be on 5th Street at that exact time?” Brett asks dryly.

James shakes his head. There could be dozens of J. Wilsons, surely. If not, then at least there had to be one other in the city. It might not have been him, but even if that were a comforting thought— which it’s not—it would hardly matter at this point anyway. He’s the one that died.

“It was you, James,” Brett continues calmly. “We don’t tend to make mistakes. There are pretty bad consequences when we do. I’m sure Aron probably figured out it was you somehow.”

It hits him, then. His fucking bag. His dumb monogrammed leather bag, bought as a Christmas present from one of his uncles a few years back. _J. R. Wilson._ Fuck. When Aron helped him to his feet, he probably saw his bag. He groans and shoves his head back with his hands, wanting for a moment to childishly kick his feet. He’d never even particularly _liked_ that bag, but it had been good for carting his laptop to and from work, especially in the lighter months when he didn’t have to wear a coat and could shove his wallet and phone in there too. That the stupid thing should be his downfall. Fuck.

Brett checks his watch then, and his eyebrows go up. “Oh, well, good, our appointment should be here any second now.” He claps his hands together and looks around as more people walk past them, not taking single notice of the two of them. “Time to show you how it’s done.”

There’s enough people on the sidewalk now that James can’t help but feel apprehensive; how in the hell are they supposed to just pick out one single person out of this crowd and know that they got the right one? His bag, sure, that was one way of identifying him but that had also been a fluke. What if he had forgotten it in his rush out the door, or what if he didn’t even _have_ it?

Brett perks up all of a sudden, though, and tilts his head towards the right.

“Listen,” he says quietly.

James looks at him incredulously, but then he hears it.

“—Barber. Yes. B-A-R-B-E-R. I’m calling about an unauthorized payment on my credit card. Yes.”

It’s a man’s voice, and as James turns towards the right he sees the owner, a phone pressed to his ear as he walks past them. Brett immediately stands up, motioning for James to follow him, and though it feels awkward to do so James listens, stuffing the Post-It with his name into his jeans pocket. Barber’s walking at a brisk pace, but Brett doesn’t seem to have any trouble keeping the healthy distance between fellow pedestrian and crazed stalker.

James looks up as they stop on the corner to wait for the light to change, just a couple of feet beside the dude, reads the names of the streets where they intersect. 8th and Harlem. He then turns to Brett, who’s watching him quietly with an interested look on his face. It’s as if he’s trying to see what James is doing with the situation.

“No, I didn’t— why would I spend that much money on a boat,” Barber is saying in the meantime, “I don’t— I live in the city. Why would I need a boat?”

Brett chuckles under his breath, and James watches as he casually sidles up until he and the other man are standing at a healthy distance apart. James sticks just a little bit behind, watching closely, nervously. What the fuck is he supposed to do? What’s _Brett_ supposed to do?

“No, I won’t hold, I— goddamnit,” Barber growls angrily, staring down at his phone, and Brett clicks his tongue.

“Sounds like your lunch hour’s just a blast,” he says mildly, and Barber looks over at him in annoyance.

“What’s it to you?”

James winces, but Brett, as always, just takes the comment in stride.

“All good, all good,” he says easily, and James watches as he pats Barber on the shoulder. It’s an innocent enough gesture, one of camaraderie and good faith, but James sees it; it’s like a little sliver of gold when Brett starts to take his hand away, the drag of his fingers against the fabric of Barber’s coat that trails after his movements, and when Brett lowers his hand, the color goes with him before fading at his fingertips. “Sorry to bother you.”

James wonders what it’s like to not give a singular fuck about anything at any given point. Must come with being a century old.

Barber glares at Brett, looking him up and down for a moment before muttering something to himself. The crosswalk light had changed only a couple of seconds ago, and Brett stays behind on the corner as Barber moves after the crowd, looking down at his phone as he walks. The line of his shoulders is cranky, and James watches him go, nose wrinkled in confusion.

Something catches the corner of his eye just then, and he turns just in time to see something scuttle past him at his feet. The scritching noise is… weird, and unsettling, fading every time James tries to zero in on it. He blinks, trying to track its progress, but whatever it is has already vanished. _Must’ve been a bug or something_ , he thinks, shaking his head as he turns back to the street.

The car that slams into Barber and sends him flying is kind of a shock.

James _shrieks_ , jumping back as a shoe clatters against the curb and blood splatters across the windshield, and he’s not the only one. Instantly other people turn, drawn by the sound of screaming rubber and also James, and it doesn’t take long at all for other people to start yelling too. Cars slam their breaks and there’s the sound of metal screeching against metal. It’s fucking chaos, is what it is.

Brett hasn’t moved from his spot on the corner, and he sniffs mildly as he looks at his watch, then over at James, who’s struggling to stay in one place as people start herding in increasingly opposite directions, both in their terror and their morbid interest.

“And that’s all she wrote,” he says, just as James manages to yelp, “what the _fuck,_ Brett! _”_

Brett scratches under his nose, looking bored, then twists at the wrist and points behind James. Startled, James whirls around and nearly screams again at the sight of the man who had, just a second ago, been squashed into the pavement at the corner of 8th and Harlem.

Barber looks confused, and then a little pissed off, and he stares at his mangled body in the road.

“Godfuckingdamnit,” he says angrily. “Are you kidding me?”

“Well, the good news is you don’t have to pay that credit card bill anymore,” Brett says cheerfully as he claps his hands once, makes his way over. He passes James and stops in front of Barber, who glares at Brett with the sort of annoyance most would attribute to being told they have to wait another ten minutes for a table at a restaurant. “Welcome to life after death, sir. How’s everything feeling?”

James is expecting the man to say that he’s just been hit by a car, but Barber looks at his hands for a moment and then sighs.

“Doing alright, I guess,” he says, and he sounds cranky. “Wasn’t exactly expecting to die today.”

“Most of us don’t.” Brett moves a little so that he’s standing next to Barber instead, patting his shoulder a couple of times. James watches, looking between the two of them, feeling like he’s about to explode out of his skin from, from anxiety or terror or—he doesn’t know. Brett starts to lead Barber away, nodding his head at James to tell him to follow. “But you’re gonna like wherever you’re going, I promise.”

It takes a second, but then James snaps out of it and falls just a bit behind. The ease with which Barber seems to have accepted his death makes James think of the sense of _wrong_ when he’d woken up as a reaper. The way he had just, in the back of his mind, _known_. He still has a lot of questions, and he wonders how many of them he’s going to get an answer for.

The sight in front of him… stops him dead in his tracks, though.

“What is that?” he asks in a hushed whisper, and Brett looks back at him with a knowing look in his eyes.

“What do you think it is?”

James watches as Brett gives their mark a gentle little shove, and Barber walks towards what looks like… it looks almost like a cornfield, at least to James’s eye. A vast cornfield bathed in gold, the trees in the distance blowing gently in a wind that he can’t feel. James stares at it, wide-eyed and awestruck. It’s just a little beyond the buildings in front of them, a promise, a vision.

Oh. _Oh._

“It’s different for everyone,” Brett says, looking over at him. James knows he must be gaping like a moron, but he can’t tear his eyes away from it. “A lot of kids, you know, they see a carnival, or a fair. Sometimes amusement parks. Old people, you know, they see, uh, like…” He gestures vaguely. “Stuff from their past, I guess.”

“Oh,” James whispers, wide-eyed. It’s… there’s no other word for it. It’s beautiful.

“ _That’s_ why we’re here, James.” Brett’s voice has taken an oddly serious note, and he gestures as he speaks, just leaning slightly into James’s space again. “We don’t kill people, it’s not like that. We just… you know, guide them. Without us, those people don’t make it there. They don’t even get to _see_ it. They just… wander around. But if we take their souls before they die, they’re free of all that, and we can guide them to the other side. Depressing? Yeah. But necessary.”

James thinks of the glow at the tips of Brett’s fingers, the golden shimmer as he took Barber’s soul from his body. As Barber gets closer and closer, he too starts to glow that beautiful golden. When he touches the grass, everything fades into nothing, and both James and Brett are left standing together on the corner, and the sound of the city returns.

For the second time, James has to scrub at his eyes with his sleeve, but this time it’s for a bunch of reasons he doesn’t quite understand. Some of it is because it’s so beautiful, and so moving. But mostly… mostly it’s the sense of loss. He could’ve had that, maybe. He’s still not necessarily thrilled about being _dead,_ not by a long shot, and he’d much rather still be bored out of his skull at his desk job right now, but… had just one more person died before him, he would’ve been able to see his own afterlife. Would’ve crossed over to the other side.

James has always tried to be someone who didn’t dwell in what-ifs. He tried to be someone who only looked ahead and only occasionally considered the would’ves and could’ves as idle daydreaming in the boring parts of the day. He feels ungrateful now. Bored with his job when he was lucky his friend was able to get him one at all, complained about dumb things when he should’ve been happy to even get up in the morning. Just one bad roll of the die and here he is, barely feeling like he enjoyed life at all.

“You look like you’re thinking very hard.”

James blinks and looks over to find that Brett’s just staring at him knowingly.

“Existential crisis?” Brett continues, and James has to look away again. “Don’t worry. Just about all of us had one. Sucks, waking up to find out that you still get to experience the world, but you don’t _really_ get to live in it anymore.” He sighs, scratches at the scruff on his jaw absentmindedly. “All you get to keep from your old life are thoughts and memories, and take it from personal experience, James— that’s all we ever had in the first place.”

His hands are shaking when he looks down again, and James turns them over, stares at his knuckles. He thinks of old people, how their hands got wrinkly with time. And he remembers what Brett had told him. World War II. The 50s. God, the fucking _20s._ Even Trevor, their last “new” guy, had to be around _forty_ if he was as old as he looked now as when he died. He wasn’t ever going to age, but the price was his _life._ It’s like a terrible video game, really. No matter how many years passed, the back of his hands were always going to stay the same.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he says quietly after a moment. “This is… it’s fucked up, man. This is fuckin’ heavy.”

Brett chuckles, a little humorlessly.

“You just do. You've got to think about all the things you like and decide whether they're worth sticking around for.” He shrugs, looks out to squint at the cars in front of them. “And if they are, you'll find a way to do this.”

James hesitates.

“And... what if I don’t?”

“Then you go away,” Brett says simply, “and you don't get to like anything anymore.”

James doesn’t have to ask what that means; he’s figured out by now that there’s no opting out of this job to bigger and better things. No upwards and onwards, and he’s not too keen to find out what _going away_ actually entails. He’s pretty sure he knows. Brett’s still watching him closely, probably gauging his reaction, and it’s in an almost idle way how James wonders if people have chosen that option before. Probably. And that’s the most fucked up part of all.

“What do you say, James?” Brett’s hand comes down, heavy on his shoulder. “Still up for it?”

“You make it sound like I’ve got a choice, dude,” James says dryly, and shoves his hands in his pockets, twisting his lips into mock-contemplation. “Hmmm, vanish forever into the _fucking_ void or hang out with you weird fucks doing… doing this shit. Yeah. Hard decision.”

“Some people think it is,” Brett replies, and switches his hold, takes James sideways by the shoulders and shakes him a bit. “Think of it this way. _Eventually_ you get to move on, you just don’t know when. It’s basically just like living.”

Well. He can work with that.

Maybe.

Brett claps his hands once, while the rest of the people on the street are herded away by the police.

“Well, that’s about all the training I can give you. I have to hand over the rest of the names to the afternoon shift, so, you might as well come along with me.”

There are a million and one questions running through James’s head—how does he take someone’s soul, what does his afterlife look like, _where the fuck is he going to sleep_ — but instead of asking any of them he just nods, shoves his hands into his pockets, and stares at the pool of blood in the middle of the road. God. What a fucking day. He instinctively reaches for his phone in his pocket to check the time and his messages and, when he realizes, nearly groans.

“I don’t suppose there’s a reaper phone plan?” he asks as he and Brett start to make their way down the street again. Not that he has anyone to talk to anymore, really, but it would be nice to have some sense of normality.

“Nah. We just get burners. And we only really talk to each other.” Brett side-eyes him a bit, as if he could read James’s mind, but James just gives him the most innocent, wide-eyed stare he can muster in return. After a second or two of the both of them staring at each other like that, James throws his hands up and sighs loudly.

“I’m not going to call anyone I know, man. Knew. I don’t even have their numbers. I just.” He gestures, trying to figure out what he wants to say. “I don’t know, it’s just. Mmph.” He trails off, scrubs at his face. “Maybe I’ll just get a watch.”

Brett hums thoughtfully, but it sounds almost like a laugh.

They walk back in silence after that, James with his hands shoved deep into his pockets and a bit of a scowl on his face. No phone, no apartment, no dog. To be fair, he hasn’t actually asked about his apartment or his dog yet, but he’s not nearly as stupid as anyone takes him for, and he can gather from what Brett said earlier about ‘thoughts and memories’ that he’s got the clothes off his back and that’s about it.

Which, well. That fucking sucks. He had a decent enough video game collection, and a really good computer, and a really sweet dog. Not the nicest apartment in the world but shit, he’d take it right now. Maybe he can break into it and grab his clothes and other belongings before they have to take it all away. Who would even do that? His mom? Jordan?

“You know, this whole set-up is pretty shitty,” James says as Brett opens the door to the Waffle Haus, and he knows he sounds bitter. Brett looks over his shoulder at him, an eyebrow raised.

“Do you really think I don’t know that?” is his only answer.

Trevor and Joe are sitting in a different, larger booth, but this time they’re accompanied by two others; a young woman standing and leaning against the edge of the booth, and then a young man sitting next to Trevor, who looks to have dozed off sitting up. The other two are talking with Joe, who’s taken off his hat to reveal even more hair than James initially thought. Brett sighs in what sounds like relief and makes his way over to the table, and James follows after him.

“You’re late,” the girl says when she catches sight of Brett, and then cranes her head to take a look at James up and down. “Ohh, right. Joe said there was a new guy.”

Joe grins apologetically. The other newcomer tilts his head to look at James, too, but there’s a slight smile on his handsome face as he leans forward onto his hands and doesn’t say anything. Brett simply hands his notebook over to the girl, who flips through it briefly before snapping it shut and brandishing it at him in acceptance. She tucks it into the pocket of her own jacket, then turns to James, all business.

“Anna,” she says, sticking her hand out, and James takes it. “And that one over there’s Asher. We’re part of the afternoon shift.”

“Oh good. Are there more of you?” James asks tiredly, and Asher laughs from the table.

“A couple more,” he says, but that’s his only answer. Trevor stirs at the laughter, sniffing as his eyes open and he sits up a little straighter.

“Lindsey and Jakob are still on their way,” Anna tacks on, and then checks her watch, sliding her sleeve up as she does so. “She called and said there’s traffic.” She looks up from her watch, raises a knowing eyebrow. “I’m guessing that was you?”

“I am nothing if not dramatic,” Brett replies easily, clearly ignoring the way James is glaring at him for the _called_ comment. “I’m going to head out. Things to do, people to talk to.” He then points at Joe, who looks a little alarmed. “Keep an eye on James for me.”

“Oh.” Joe calms visibly. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Keep an eye on—” James makes a face. “I don’t need to be _babysat_ , you know.”

“You died today,” Brett says tiredly, looking over at him. “You absolutely need to be babysat.” With that, he jabs a finger right into James’s space. “No going to your apartment. No going to your family’s houses. No contacting friends. Rule number one, James: your old life is inaccessible. Got it?”

James just glares some more, leaning away from him.

“We’ll go back to me and Trevor’s place,” Joe supplies helpfully, clearly looking to diffuse a situation that’s only barely started to escalate. James would be appreciative, but mostly he still sort of wants to fight. “You can stay with us until you get on your feet.”

That gets Trevor’s attention, who looks over at Joe with eyebrows raised, but doesn’t say anything. Asher’s just looking between each sentence like it’s a tennis match, leaning on his own arms on the table with that slight grin on his face, and Anna’s only just standing quietly. They all seem very interested in the conversation.

Brett looks at James pointedly, finger still out and eyebrows raised, before he’s turning at heading out the door. James watches him go with anger broiling in his stomach, and as soon as the door closes and the bell tinkles, he says loudly, “ _prick!_ ”

There’s loud, boisterous laughter from most of the table at that, but rather than acknowledge it James just reaches up and angrily tugs his hair out of the tie, shaking his head wildly. After that, he throws himself down into the booth Anna’s leaning against and lays there on his back with an arm over his eyes, groaning loudly. What a _fucking_ day.

Asher’s still got a bit of a chuckle in his tone as he asks, “doing okay, man?”

God. He’s so sick of being asked that question.

“I died today.” James echoes Brett’s words mockingly. “I’m fuckin’ great, dude. Spectacular.”

“Don’t let Brett get to you,” Joe says kindly, leaning forward so he can talk to James a little easier. James doesn’t move his arm from his eyes, nor get up, but he’s still listening. “He’s… I mean, he can be kind of a jerk sometimes but he’s got a good heart. I think it’s just… it’s hard, you know? Being the boss and all.”

James takes his arm away then, sits back up, and says louder at the door, “ _prick_.”

“I agree with you there,” Trevor finally pipes up. “Brett’s kind of an asshole sometimes. But,” and here he shrugs. “He still looks out for all of us.”

He still has half a mind to argue, but James just runs both hands down his face, through his hair, and then he lays back down in the booth. How in the fuck can life take such a sharp turn? It makes him feel like he’s got whiplash, and he watches from an awkward angle as Anna pulls her own stack of yellow Post-Its out of her pocket and starts copying out of Brett’s notebook. The Post-Its already elicit a nasty taste in his mouth at the sight of them, but she writes just four, sticks the top one to the tip of Asher’s nose when he reaches out for it.

James listens to their idle conversation, listens to the chatter of people who have known each other for… god, for decades, probably. How in the hell is he supposed to fit in with any of them, some of whom are old enough to be his parents, fuck, probably his _grandparents_? The last couple of hours have been a whirlwind and, like a whirlwind, James gets up very up abruptly, ignores everything around him, and just stalks outside.

The sun is beaming past some of the taller buildings as he walks. He has no set destination in mind, and he can hear the tinkle of the bell from behind him as someone follows him out the door. He doesn’t care. He walks quicker, stops suddenly, tries to change his direction. He’s got too many thoughts in his head and none of them make any _sense,_ and for the third fucking time in one day his eyes are starting to burn with tears.

 _Get a fucking hold of yourself_ , he thinks furiously, scrubbing at them, wanting to yell at the top of his lungs. What would happen if he just ran? Did that count as giving up, would he just fucking vanish into thin air? What if he bolted, ran as fast and as hard as he could, what if he took a bus or the subway as far away as he possibly could and just kept running after that. Would they still be able to find him? Would they even bother looking? There are rules, but no one ever told him what would happen if he _broke_ those rules. Fear of the unknown seemed to be enough to keep people in line.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Joe says quietly from next to him, but James isn’t startled at all. He just laughs humorlessly, keeps walking back and forth like a mouse trapped in a maze. “If you got the impression that you can’t be… you totally can.”

“Of course I’m upset!” James explodes, but then reels himself back in. “Of— of _course_ I’m upset, what nutcase wouldn’t be? I’m just—” He trails off, waves his hands around before letting them flop to his sides. “I’m just. I don’t know. Fuck.”

Joe looks unperturbed, shrugs his shoulders at James’s outburst like it’s nothing.

“I think sometimes this whole thing happens really quick and you’re sort of thrown into it, and it _really_ sucks, and you kind of feel like you have to suck it up and deal with it.” Joe’s expression sort of twists. “I mean. You really kind of do, but you know what I mean? You don’t get to process it. But you know, you’re… _allowed_ to be frustrated. If you wanna scream or break things or cry, I’ve got your back, man.”

James exhales shakily, loudly, just one burst of air that shudders out of him like a sob.

“How did you die?” he asks, and he hates how his voice wavers. There’s a moment where he wonders if he’s just been very rude, but when he turns to look, Joe’s just smiling up at him.

“House fire,” he says calmly, hands in his pockets. “In the middle of the night. I guess smoke inhalation is the term for it? Anyway, I don’t remember much of it. I was sleeping.”

It’s a moment of vulnerability, for _both_ of them, and _grateful_ is too mild a term for what swells in James’s chest.

“Were you upset?” he asks, half rhetorically, the other half desperate to know that he’s not alone, and Joe laughs.

“Oh, yeah. Fucking furious, man.”

That startles a laugh out of James. He looks down at his hands again, stares at the way his fingers shake. He’s been dead for… probably about five hours, and nothing seems like it’s going to be normal ever again. This new normal that the rest of them have accepted seems like lightyears away, and maybe he can get there eventually, but it sure as fuck seems like he never will. He reaches up, runs his fingers through his hair and absently combs some of the more stubborn tangles. Fuck, he doesn’t even have a _brush._ He doesn’t have _anything._

“I meant what I said about you staying with us, though,” Joe offers up, after a moment. “I mean, we have a couch, and it’s not that big a deal. If you want. I know it’s kind of sudden, but… we all remember what it was like.”

James cards halfway through his hair, absently holds it up into a ponytail with his fingers and just sighs.

“I… yeah.” He stares into the middle distance for a moment, but then turns to Joe and tries to smile as he drops his arms again. His hair falls against his shoulders, a complete mess. “Yeah, man, I’d… I’d appreciate that a lot, actually.”

Joe’s smile is genuine, bright.

“Yeah, dude. It’s no problem. Really.”

He turns his head then, looks over James’s shoulder. When James turns, he sees that Trevor’s striding up to them, wearing his sunglasses again.

“Anna and Asher left,” he says as way of explanation when he reaches them. He towers over the two of them, looking between both before his eyebrows raise over his sunglasses. “So. Are we going home, or what?”

Joe looks sidelong at James and then back at Trevor. It seems like without even a word, the two of them have a brief conversation, because Trevor shrugs his shoulders and then pushes his sunglasses up onto his forehead. It shoves a lot of his hair back, and for the first time in proper lighting, James can see how tired the kid looks.

“I mean, you already offered,” Trevor says, and rubs at his eyes. “Like… I don’t have a problem with it anyway? But, yeah. It’s cool. I mostly just want to go home, dude.”

“We’ll take the subway,” Joe says, straightens his hat, his hood. “It’ll be a lot quicker.”

“Is there, like, a Reaper MetroCard?” James asks dryly, reaching up to twist his hair back into a bun. That gets a laugh out of Joe, and a small smirk out of Trevor, but he’s being half serious. Really, what the hell do any of them do to get around? Was that why Brett dragged him through half the city on foot? Do any of them even have a damn car? He’s glad he didn’t have a car, fuck. Do they have to pay for insurance?

“We’ll fill you in on the finer details,” Joe assures him, clearly seeing something in James’s expression. “Just… we’ll work on it. There’s a lot to talk about.”

He rubs at his face one more time, and they all fall quiet as they walk. Before long they’re descending the stairs into the subway, and sure enough Joe swipes a card through the machines, stretches his arm through the turnstile to hand it to Trevor, who then does the same with James.

While Joe and Trevor bicker quietly between themselves about groceries, James finds himself trying not to stare too hard at the other people in the train car. An old lady with puffy white hair, a middle-aged man with a briefcase and a bald spot. A younger man with tattoos running up his arms, a little girl in pigtails holding tight to her mother’s hand. All of them, minding their own business, living their lives, not knowing that three of their fellow passengers are dead. James wonders if their names will show up, wonders if he’ll see them again soon.

He hopes not.

The train rattles around them, and he closes his eyes and leans his head back until it rests against the window. He can feel Joe and Trevor staring at him, but he doesn’t move again until Joe’s gently tugging at his jacket, telling him they’ve reached their stop. As they’re leaving the car James catches sight of himself in the reflection of the window, and it throws him for a loop again. But at the same time, it reminds him of something else.

“Hey, Joe. Question.”

“Mmm.” Joe hums at him, looking up past the brim of his hat as the three of them head down one of the quieter streets, lined with trees and brick buildings. It’s a nicer part of the city than James was expecting, and certainly better than where he lives— _lived._ Fuck.

“You know how we,” he gestures at himself, “we look… different, right? To. To living people. I mean… do you know why Brett looks the same?” He thinks back to himself in the window, straight-haired and exhausted, looking very much like a crackhead to his eyes. And then Brett, right next to him, looking exactly the same as when James first met him. “At least, I think he looked the same. It looked like him in the window.”

“Oh, well.” Joe scratches at his beard, shares a glance with Trevor, who just shrugs. It’s clear he’d been following along with the conversation, but he offers no counsel of his own. When Joe continues, it’s a bit hesitant, as if it’s information he’s not sure he’s allowed to share. “Um, I think it’s like… everyone he ever knew is dead anyway. You know? So what’s the point of him looking different?” They turn to walk up a stoop, and Trevor starts digging around in his pockets for the keys as Joe shrugs his shoulders. “I guess that’s kind of how it works. Same with Anna, she’s even older than Brett is.”

It’s… not the most comforting answer, and sure as hell not what James was expecting. There are other questions running through his head, but they’re way more intrusive, and contrary to popular belief he _does_ know when to shut his mouth, so he falls into thoughtful silence. The door clicks when Trevor opens it, and then they’re walking up the stairs.

He runs that through his mind as he gets a little tour of their living space. _Everyone he ever knew is dead anyway._ It fills James with a dread that he can’t quite put a name too, and in the back of his mind he feels a little ill, a little guilty for the ‘prick’ comment.

But most of all, it fills him with a sorrow too deep for words, a deep pit of self-pity that clouds his mind for the rest of the night. One day, everyone he knows will be dead too. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to process that and so, not for the first time, he puts that thought aside, sets it in a mental lockbox that he knows he’ll have to open sooner rather than later.

“Another question,” James says, while they’re gathering blankets for the couch—or rather, Joe points to the top of the closet and Trevor starts piling whatever he finds there into his arms until James tries to butt in and help to no avail. They both turn and look at him, eyebrows raised, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Please tell me you have an XBox or something, or I’m just gonna throw myself out the fuckin’ window now.”

For the first time that day, Trevor laughs. It’s a bright little thing, his laughter. It crinkles his eyes as he throws his head back and it makes him look even younger than before, takes away some of the exhaustion in his face. James watches as he presses his nose into the blankets and snorts once more with laughter before emerging again, shaking his head and waddling towards the living room with his armful. Left behind, Joe nods his head, chuckling.

“Yeah, we do. We don’t have a lot of games, but we make do.”

“Good. I have priorities,” James says by way of explanation, and because there’s at least a small part of that that’s true. He wants to drown his sorrows and his brain cells in mindless synthetic violence.

Some of the anxiety that had been curling in his stomach loosens as he slips his socks off and stuffs them into his shoes, takes off his jacket and lets his hair down again. He flops down onto the floor and rests his back against the couch; Joe joins him on the floor, and Trevor stretches his long legs across the length of the couch instead.

It digs at him. It feels natural to settle into friendship with Joe, at least, and Trevor starts to open up a bit as the night goes on, but he wonders about the reapers in the past who chose to vanish. Wonders about what the others he met tonight are doing. He wonders if he’ll ever see his friends again, knows that they won’t even recognize him. He’ll never get to talk to them again, unless he breaks what he knows are major rules. It’s a constant buzz in the back of his mind. His mother has to know by now, but he buries that deep and doesn’t touch it.

Seamus definitely knows; he would’ve found out when James didn’t make it to work. And Seamus would’ve told Jordan. That, in some small way, is a comfort; Jordan knows where the spare key to his apartment is, and Jordan may be a lot of things but there’s no way he wouldn’t have gotten Ein. So she’s safe, at least. He can rest easy knowing that.

Another part of him, still twisting sharp and thick like spikes in his chest, feels guilty. He died. He died and left behind a lot of people who loved him, and here he is sitting on the floor of two strangers’ apartment, playing video games with them as if nothing changed. He spent half the day trailing after some ornery old bastard, watched him take a _life,_ and tomorrow he’ll… well, he’ll probably have to do the same thing. He ate breakfast at a strange restaurant and saw his own goddamn body and then he just… ended up here. Everyone else is in mourning, probably, their lives have skidded to a halt right alongside James’s, and it’s weird, and here he is.

Trevor’s shouting something at Joe, telling him to shoot to the left, and Joe curses and moves his whole body with the controller. It feels something like familiarity. It reminds him of nights spent with Jordan and Seamus and all their other friends, crowded around in someone’s basement and gorging themselves on snacks while they played video games into the night. The mental comparison brings him some small amount of comfort, and he sits on the floor, and he yells and throws things when he dies in the game, and they all laugh, and he hopes to whatever fucking god is listening that he can get the fuck through this.

One day down, who knows how many more to go.


	3. hell is living in resentment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is... so long... it's so long and there's... still no aleks... i'm so sorry. he's coming, i promise. he's almost here and then he'll be in the fic _all the time_. ;o;
> 
> thank you to everyone who's been leaving kudos and comments, it means the world! i also made a [tumblr](http://myriadus.tumblr.com) for my fics! whoo!

He’s running along a subway path, the tracks sparking under his bare feet like a livewire, but there are birds soaring overhead, sparrows, he thinks, and then the bricks abruptly give way to bright daylight. He looks up, slowing, coming to a stop as the birds flutter past him and streak out into a horizon made of fluffy clouds. The sky turns golden, shimmers distantly and when he reaches for it, it quickly turns into darkness.

Blinking, he finds himself sitting at his desk at work, and as he turns to stare at the computer monitor, the words start to melt into a waterfall of mud onto the keyboard, slipping down over his hands. It’s thick, slimy, disgusting, and he makes a face and lets it fall from his hands onto the desk.

“Ewww,” he says out loud, and the mud gets thicker, plops where it lands on the desk.

Seamus looks onward, arms crossed, hair a fucking mess. He looks tired as ever, and he sighs as he leans over James, stares at all the muck and general grossness that’s covering James’s desk.

“We’re gonna have to get that fixed,” he says solemnly, as if this happens every day, “otherwise that’s gonna leak all over the damn floor.”

James looks between Seamus and the monitor, and finds himself nodding. Damn. They do need to get that fixed. How else is he going to do his work? He starts to reach out, tries to gather it all in his hands to toss it into the trash can next to him, but that damn thing has holes in it now. It’s just making a goddamn mess.

“James?” Seamus looks over at him. “James.”

He opens his eyes and groans, squeezing them shut again.

“Fuck,” he mumbles sleepily, and Seamus laughs softly at him.

“James, wake up.”

He snuffles into the pillow underneath him, cracks his eyes open again, slower, to a figure gently prodding at his shoulder. There’s sunlight streaming in through the blinds, and he groans as soon as he sees it, buries his face back into the pillow and hugs it tighter to his face. Fucking Christ, what’s Seamus doing in his apartment and how did he get in without Ein losing her fucking mind一

It all slams back into him with the force of a freight train.

He lifts his head quickly, startled, and Joe jumps back a little, lands right on his ass where he’d been sitting on his haunches to gently poke James awake. James instantly feels bad about it, because Joe’s probably his favorite of this new little group so far and he’s also been kind enough to extend the help in the first place.

“Jesus,” Joe says, and then laughs, a little shaky but with good humor. “Holy fuck, dude. You scared me for a second.”

“Sorry,” James says hurriedly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes before he sits up, offers his hand out. “Sorry, shit, you just一I forgot where I was.”

“No, no, it’s cool,” Joe says, and takes his hand, lets James pull him back up so he can crouch again. He’s too damn nice. “I just. Shit, man. Whew.” He pats his chest, as if warding off a heart attack.

Trevor pokes his head into the living room, foam burbling out of his mouth as he brushes his teeth. Whatever he sees in the situation must bore him, though, because he shrugs and then disappears again, presumably walking back towards the bathroom. That raises a lot more questions, starting with _why the fuck would a reaper have to brush his teeth,_ but James is going to chalk it up to force of habit. He runs his fingers through his hair, flops back down onto the couch with a loud sigh as he moves his hands to cover his face.

He wasn’t expecting to have such fucked up dreams. Truth be told, James wasn’t even aware he could _have_ dreams. It’s the next question on what’s sure to be a long fucking list by the time he’s done, but he files them all away and shoves the covers back. His bare toes hit the carpet and he stares down at them, wiggles all ten a little bit.

He still feels alive. If he weren’t completely and fully aware of the fact that he’s dead, courtesy of Brett, he really wouldn’t believe it at all. He can feel the fibers of the carpet against the calloused bottoms of his feet, sinks a little into the couch cushions when he moves. There’s sweat under his arms from where it had gotten too hot under the blankets, his hair’s a mess from having tossed and turned all night. Every damn sign points to _life,_ but his own dead face, lifeless and cold, flashes across his vision when he blinks.

“Did you sleep okay?” Joe asks as he stands up again, and James peeks out through the spaces of his fingers.

“...I guess,” he says after a moment. “Don’t really have a basis for sleeping okay, yet. Do we… I mean, do we even need to sleep?”

Joe shrugs.

“Who doesn’t like to sleep?” is his way of answering. James honestly can’t argue with that one, so he sits up again and starts gathering the blankets wrapped around his knees. He also gives himself a little cautious, stealth sniff under the arm, but he’s surprised when it just smells like… nothing. Maybe that’s a perk. It’s definitely a sign that he’s dead, if nothing else.

He’s still wearing his black polo for work, which fucking sucks, but at least he can cover that part up with his jacket. Or, well, fuck. What _is_ he supposed to do about clothes? Is it a ghost type situation? Is he condemned to wander the earth in his fucking office gear? But no, that didn’t make sense, actually. Joe’s wearing a t-shirt and a hoodie, baggy jeans, his hat. Granted, James doesn’t know all that much about 50s fashion, but given that Joe walks around looking like every other guy their age, he’s pretty sure that they’re definitely not stuck in what they died in. That’s a relief, if nothing else.

“So, what’s the deal with clothes?” he asks, holding the bundle of blankets in his arms as he shuffles towards where Joe is opening the closet again. Joe turns his head, first to James, then to Trevor, then looking over at James again.

“Did… Brett not cover that?” he asks hesitantly, and James frowns over the blankets.

“Yeah, I get the feeling Brett gave me the crash course.”

“...huh,” Joe says, and then winces. “I mean, well. Brett won’t let us go to your apartment to pick up anything, but… and don’t judge us here, but, uh. Next time you have an appointment with someone your size…”

He trails off pointedly, but if James hadn’t caught up by that point, Trevor’s addition to the conversation erases any niceties.

“Or you can just take the money out of their wallet and go to the thrift shop.” He shrugs. “Either one.”

James can’t help it; he looks over at Trevor, appalled.

“Trevor, what the _fuck_?”

“Reapers have been doing it for centuries,” Joe intercedes quickly, because James is looking at Trevor with a horror he wasn’t sure he could _feel_ before just now. Isn’t that grave robbing? What the fuck? Do these people just not have any morals? He opens his mouth to argue, but Joe just keeps going. “Literally centuries, James. It’s just… a thing we do. Trevor and I do it. Brett does it, Anna and Asher do it. You don’t… _have_ to do it. But you have to eat, right? Well.” He pauses, thinks on that. “I mean. Technically, no. But still.”

“What. The fuck.” James makes sure his words are clear and enunciated while Trevor rolls his eyes and makes his way back into the kitchen. “What the fuck, Joe. That’s fucked up.”

“...I mean, yeah,” Joe agrees, and moves aside while James stuffs the blankets back onto the top shelf where they’d been. “It’s super fucked up. But you roll with the punches, man.”

Despite how horrified he is, James still can’t help but be grateful in a million different ways for Joe. At least he has _some_ semblance of sanity, as opposed to his other two prime examples: Brett and Trevor, who apparently have never cared about a damn thing in their lives, ever. He wonders if that’s just a _Brett and Trevor_ thing or it’s just the fate of them all. Maybe you really do just stop giving a fuck eventually.

Joe, who still seems to give a fuck, gives him a couple gentle pats on the shoulder after he slides the closet door shut.

“You ready for your first real day?” he asks, clearly trying to sound encouraging, but James just pulls a face as he follows Joe back into the living room.

“Not really,” he mutters, and starts to gather his things.

It’s odd, how menial the task of tugging his socks and shoes back on is, how he just slides his jacket back on like it was any other day. Again he pats his pockets for his phone and then has to stifle his irritated groan when he comes up with nothing. Every part of his day since he woke up could be taken for any other day, except for that one little fact where he’s _dead._

Trevor wanders back out of the kitchen with his sunglasses back on his head, pushing all of his dark hair back. It reminds James to tie his own, and as they leave the apartment and Joe locks the door behind them, it reoccurs to him that he has no idea how he looks in the mirror.

As they all hurry down the stairs, he pulls his hair back up tight, tugs the tie hard until his hair’s flat against his head.

He’d only seen his counterpart once or twice, with his… straight hair and his high cheekbones, two qualities James has absolutely never claimed to possess. He’s also pretty sure he’s clean-shaven, if he remembers correctly, which is… well. James hasn’t been clean-shaven basically since he grew facial hair for the first time, so that’s something else entirely. He looks down at his own hands again, but they’re _his_ hands. He’ll have to look in the mirror sometime, much as he’d like to avoid it.

The sun is beaming when they step out onto the stoop again, and James has to shield his eyes with a hand as he squints down the street.

“What time is it, anyway?” he asks through his scrunched up face, and he just barely catches how Joe glances at his watch. Fuck, he really needs one.

“About a quarter to eight,” Joe says after a moment, and James now realizes that both he and Trevor are wearing their sunglasses. As if he could read James’s mind, Joe grins at him. “Might want to get a pair of shades. It’s really bright in morning and we leave early.”

“Noted,” James says, a tad bitterly, and he catches the grin on Trevor’s face.

They live in the nice part of town, and James glances around as they start walking. Red bricks and fire escapes, people shuffling past on their own way to work and not taking single notice of the three of them unless it’s to nod or smile in passing. It feels weird. James finally ends up pulling his hood over his head to at least block some of the sunlight, and he hurries after Joe and Trevor.

They don’t take the subway this time around一when they just walk right past the entrance to down below, he gives them both a quizzical look, and it’s Joe to the rescue again.

“We like to walk, and our card only has so much on it.” All three of them stop on a corner, waiting for the light to turn. Already it’s starting to open up into more of the city that James is used to, and they move with a growing crowd as everyone starts to wake up. He can hear sirens in the distance and it makes him a little nauseous to remember the same sound the day before. He shoves it down. “Anyway, it’s really not that far. Most of us walk anyway.”

“Oh, I noticed.” James thinks of how most of his first day as a dead person was spent on his feet. Dead man walking. Heh. “I guess I’m just still wondering what the fuck is going on.”

“It’s a lot to swallow,” Joe agrees. “You get way used to it, though.”

“I’m still wondering what the fuck is going on sometimes,” Trevor adds, a little absently, and James gives him a little interested glance. He doesn’t say anything more than that, though, and James chalks it up to friendly conversation as they make their way down the street.

Joe’s right一it’s not a long walk at all. Maybe about twenty minutes, a little longer than that if James could actually tell what time it was, but it still has him a little winded nonetheless as they make their way inside Der Waffle Haus. The last thing he had to eat was a few forkfuls of leftover Chinese they offered him and a can of Diet Coke the night before, and then the breakfast that Brett had bought for him. As the smell of syrup hits him yet again he realizes how fucking _hungry_ he is. He thinks back on what Joe had said about eating, and about stealing money. Shit.

They all greet the hostess warmly and James, again, just trails behind as Joe and Trevor weave their way through the breakfast rush. They find Brett in almost the exact same booth as the day before and, in what can only be described as a sheer parody, he’s got the newspaper folded and held up in one hand, spoonful of oatmeal in the other.

“Morning,” he says without looking up. His eyes are scanning the newspaper as he takes a bite from his spoon and then puts it back into the bowl.

“You’re so fucking old,” is Trevor’s way of replying, and he sits down heavily in the booth next to him, reaching immediately for Brett’s glass of orange juice. Brett smacks his hand away without looking.

“Stop it.”

“You stole my toast yesterday! This is payback.” Again Trevor reaches for the glass, but this time Brett sighs loudly and lets him, only turning his newspaper and continuing to read. While he and Joe are sliding into the opposite booth, James actually has to hide his grin as Trevor brandishes the glass triumphantly and drinks the whole thing in one go.

“You’re going to make yourself sick, and I’m going to laugh at you,” Brett tells him, still reading, two seconds before Trevor gags on too big a mouthful. “There, see? I’m laughing now.”

“You’re so cruel. And to a _child_ ,” Trevor says into a napkin.

Brett’s eyes finally leave the newspaper to roll up towards the heavens. His mouth is a thin line as he clearly prays for patience before he looks back down again, finally takes note of James and Joe sitting across from the two of them. He runs a hand down the one side of his face and then keeps it there, resting his elbow on the table and grinning tiredly.

“So, James. How was your first night as a dead man?”

Well, points for bluntness. Joe winces next to him, but James just shrugs and tries to keep his wits about him. Definitely the weirdest question he’s ever been asked.

“To be perfectly honest, it feels exactly like being alive? Played video games and drank some soda. So I guess I’m not used to it yet.”

Brett hums his reply, leaning back again. The hand that had been on his face instead goes out, arm stretching around the back of the seat, and if Trevor notices he doesn’t care. “Well, you were in the paper, if you were curious. It mentions you by name, but it’s pretty straightforward over all.”

It’s tempting, and James usually isn’t one to turn down attention, but he shakes his head, finally pulls his hood down again.

“I respect that,” Brett replies, and puts the newspaper down next to his food. James eyes it warily, but stands by his decision. The last thing he wants to read about is his own death, possibly his mother’s reaction. He sure as fuck doesn’t want to read any ‘eyewitness’ accounts or whatever they call it. The curiosity eats at him a little bit, and he drowns it with the glass of water their waitress brings over when she comes to take their order.

“I’ve got you,” Joe says when James politely refuses any order, and James nearly glares at him. “Oh please, you look like you’re about to kill Brett for his breakfast.”

Well, that’s true enough, and James can’t stop the gurgle from his stomach as he looks over at Brett’s bowl of oatmeal.

“...breakfast special, please,” he mumbles, and Trevor laughs again. There’s a slight grin playing on Brett’s face, too, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he reaches into his pocket, pulls out the little notebook and his stack of Post-Its. James already hates the sight of them, but he joins Joe and Trevor in chatting idly about nothing in particular while Brett starts to copy down the names from his little leather book.

It only takes a couple of minutes, but when he’s done he gives James a knowing look, starts unsticking the notes and handing them out.

He gives James his last, and Brett’s eyebrows are raised as he reaches out. Almost timidly, James takes the Post-It, holds it against the edge of the table as he reads it. He scans the name, the address, the time of death一wait. He goes back over the address, eyebrows coming together, before it clicks.

“This is the address to my _office building!_ ” He looks up at Brett with a sinking feeling一but Brett’s expression is one of shock, not humor. “You’re gonna make me, what, kill a coworker now? Seriously, Brett?”

“Huh,” Brett says after a second, shoulders moving with it. He looks stunned. “I didn’t do that. Upper Management did. I don’t chose the names.”

“They’re dicks.” Trevor’s voice is one of accusation on James’s behalf, and James thrusts his Post-It out at him.

“Dude, trade with me. I’m super not killing a coworker. _Please,_ ” he says quickly, almost frantically, but Trevor just looks between the Post-It and then Brett, who sighs tiredly and leans forward.

“You can’t trade.”

“What?” The sinking feeling deepens, the fucking Titanic of dread weighing itself down in the pit of James’s stomach. He doesn’t recognize the name on the Post-It, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing. He doesn’t want to take anyone’s soul, but he especially doesn’t want to have to walk up to someone whose face he recognizes, someone he’s probably passed in the halls before, or gotten coffee with in solidarity of a shitty job. “Why not?”

“They’re assigned to you,” Joe says quietly, and James pulls his hand back at last. The Post-It feels heavy, somehow. “You’re the only one who can do it. That’s how it works.”

“What?” James repeats, but his voice pitches up again. “What the fuck is this now?”

“You’re the only one who can take that person’s soul,” Brett explains, while James just stares at him. “That manila folder? Remember? It tells me who’s supposed to reap who. And your name was next to that name so, congratulations James, you get to go back to work after all.”

“Seriously?” James looks back down at the Post-It to find that his hands have started to shake a little again. All that pent-up, nervous energy he had in life stayed with him in death, it seems. “My first fucking… reap, whatever, and I have to do it to someone I might _know_?”

“Do you recognize th一” Joe cuts himself off instantly, smiling faux-cheerfully up at the waitress as she places their three plates in front of them. As soon as she’s gone, he’s back to looking concerned. “Do you recognize the name?”

He already knows the answer to that, but he scans it again and feels mild relief. “No. It’s nobody I know. At least, like, not personally. It might be someone that I just don’t know by name...”

He trails off, unable to tear his eyes away from the Post-It. Someone’s life between his fingers, someone’s life he’s going to have to end today, and for one moment he’d simplified it into _well, at least I don’t know who they are personally._ Someone who might have a spouse, children. They might have a mother who loves them very much.

Slowly, he touches the Post-It to the space between his eyes, leaning forward a little as he just breathes for a moment. Someone’s life. Not a videogame, nor a movie. He’ll have to take someone’s soul, and let them die, and then show them their afterlife and bring them to the other side.

When he looks up again, the others are looking at him with a surprising softness. Even Trevor who, when he sees that James has noticed their staring, immediately looks back down at his food and starts eating. The other two follow suit, and James inhales slowly, slips the Post-It into his pocket. When he does, he feels the other one left from the day before, the one with his name on it. Ironic.

“You okay?” Joe asks, and James shoots him a weak attempt at a grin.

“We’ll have to see,” is his response, and from across the table, Brett chuckles lightly.

They eat in silence, save for a comment here or there, which is an odd thing for James; he’s used to loud and boisterous, used to his friends. He’s used to laughing and chucking things at Jordan or Spencer, used to the rabble rousing of their little group. But he also gets the feeling that it’s his presence that might be the cause of it. James is self-aware enough to know that he doesn’t quite belong yet, and he feels out of place anyway. After all, this time yesterday someone completely different had been in his seat.

Joe’s the first one finished after Brett, and he cleans up around himself before digging money out of his pocket and setting it down on the table under his empty water glass. He waves his Post-It as an excuse for his early departure, and his hand is warm on James’s shoulder when he pats him.

“Good luck,” he says, and it’s clear he means it. James nods his head, and listens as Joe’s footsteps fade into the chatter of the restaurant around them. Brett’s back to reading the newspaper, but James takes another peek at his Post-it and realizes that he doesn’t even know what time it is.

“Uh,” he starts to say, but Brett talks over him without looking up.

“You’re gonna tag along with Trevor today,” he says, and Trevor looks over at him for a second before groaning. Brett continues, still without even redirecting his attention. “You were dumped on me, I’m dumping someone on you. Just make sure he makes his appointment, that’s all.” When he finally does look up, it’s just to look at Trevor. “I’m trusting you, Trev. Can you do this for me?”

“I’m right here, you know,” James mutters, and spears a sausage link angrily with his fork.

Brett ignores him, but Trevor’s eyes flick over to James just once before he looks back over at Brett. His mouth thins, then he nods once before looking back down at his food. James looks between the two of them, but then Brett’s glancing at his watch and groaning.

“Time for work, boys,” he says, and nudges Trevor to move out of the bench. As soon as he’s up he reaches over, picks up a pink hat that James hadn’t seen and settles it backwards on his head. He echoes Joe with a “good luck” and then he’s gone, leaving James and Trevor to their own devices.

“So, uh,” James says after an awkward minute, “what time is it?”

Blissfully, Trevor pulls out his phone instead, checking the time before shoving it back in his pocket. “Like 8:20. What time’s your appointment?”

James slips the Post-It back out of his pocket, takes a glance. “Uh, 10:24?”

“Oh.” Trevor shrugs his shoulders, returns to his meal. “Mine’s at 9:17, so we’ve got some time to waste, I guess.”

Well. Trevor’s not exactly the best at conversation, and James feels a little awkward about hanging out with him for the day, but as they sink into silence James finds that he’s actually grateful for it. All that passes between them are the quiet _clinks_ of their silverware against their plates, and it’s an odd sense of camaraderie somehow. James sinks a little into his seat, stabs up every stray piece of scrambled egg and hashbrowns until the plate is clean.

Across from him, Trevor sighs, starts shifting.

When James glances up, he finds that Trevor’s slipping his watch off his wrist, and he holds it out with an eyebrow raised. It’s clear what his intention is; he means for James to take it.

James blinks, looks between the watch and Trevor.

“...you’re going to need it,” Trevor says by way of explanation. It’s abrupt, and it’s definitely unexpected. But it’s also oddly sweet, especially for Trevor, and after a very long moment James reaches out and takes it. It’s analog, and kind of old, but it’s got a good hefty weight to it. “You can keep it if you want.”

“Thanks,” James mutters, clears his throat as he turns it over in his hands. “Uh. Really, man, that’s. Really thoughtful of you.”

Trevor shrugs, but now James can see that there’s a faint pink flush spreading across his cheeks as he grins down at his food.

“I use my phone more, anyway. And I can get another watch, so.” He bites into a piece of bacon with a loud crunch, but he’s still smiling. It’s infectious, and as his own smile spreads, James thinks back to how when they met, he wasn’t sure if he even liked Trevor. But he buckles the watch around his wrist and he thinks that, well, he’ll definitely have to reevaluate that initial opinion.

This time, it’s James who stacks up all the plates, the way he had seen the others do. When he peeks at his new watch, a bit of a pleased grin on his face, he sees they’ve still got about half an hour before Trevor’s appointment. It feels a little strange to call it such, but, well, as they say about being in Rome.

“Where are we going for yours?” he asks, trying to start conversation again, and Trevor looks down at his Post-It.

“Near the park,” he says, head tilted as he reads. “That’s not so far. We can probably get there early if we leave now.”

James nods, and after Trevor’s slipped his own money in with Joe and Brett’s, they make their way out the door. Again it’s too fucking bright, and he pulls his hood back up to make whatever attempt he can at a visor while Trevor laughs at him and puts his sunglasses back on. It occurs to James just then that with his black hood, he’s got just the right look for a grim reaper. He almost giggles, albeit less about the humor of it and more about the sheer absurdity of his situation.

“So, here’s a question.” James has to walk a little quicker to keep up with Trevor’s long legs, and Trevor looks over at him curiously. “ _How,_ exactly, am I supposed to take a soul anyway?”

Trevor scratches at some of his thick hair, lips pursed in thought.

“Well,” he starts, but trails off as he thinks. “...it’s sort of a feeling? Like, you can just… feel their soul, when you touch someone. I dunno.” He shrugs, puts his hands back in his pockets. “I mean, like, I guess you just… you’ll know when you feel it.”

That makes no sense whatsoever, but James nods like he understands. He can learn to wing it, depending on the whole situation. It still feels… it kind of feels like it’s all still a dream, still something that he can’t conceive of if only because he has no basis for it. Touching someone’s soul? He’s just supposed to _know_? It sounds like a bad acid trip, or the plot for a bad anime. But he’ll just have to see.

They reach the park and James takes a deep breath, closes his eyes at the smell of new grass and the crispness of early morning sunshine. He’s been here plenty of times; it’s one of Ein’s favorite spots, with a fenced off section for dogs and their owners. He looks out at where a few of the locals have already brought their dogs, spots a few familiar faces. Weird, that he won’t be coming here anymore.

Trevor takes another glance at his phone, then at the Post-It. It’s with the air of someone who’s done this many, many times, the boredom and monotony of routine.

“...any tips?” James says awkwardly, as more and more people pass them while they stand together. Trevor sniffs once, staring at his phone again. When James looks down at his watch, he sees that they’re a minute out. 9:16.

“Yeah,” he mutters, and his phone beeps loudly. “Figure out what works.”

And with that, he cups his hands around his mouth and bellows at the top of his lungs, “ _Hey, Schultz!_ ”

James jumps at the volume of it, and the suddenness, but a second later he understands. A few people turned at the cry, but only one continues to look at Trevor, maybe about twenty feet away, and Trevor groans when he catches sight of them.

“God, why is it an old lady,” he mutters, and starts to jog; James follows suit. “Is this fuckin’ Natural Causes…”

As soon as the two of them are close enough, the change in Trevor’s voice is noticeable. He goes from irritable and low to light and cheery, and James stares at him.

“Mrs. Schultz?”

“Yes?” The lady looks between the two of them, confused. “Do I know you?”

Trevor gestures at himself, a bright smile on his face. James is in fuckin awe, to be honest. “Don’t you remember me? I was the bag boy at Acme back when I was in high school, you used to come in all the time! It was my first job!”

Her eyebrows come together.

“I don’t…” she says slowly, scrutinizing Trevor for a moment. “I don’t remember that at all.”

“It was a while ago,” Trevor continues, and his boyish charm is stunning. He reaches out, cups her shoulder very gently. “Anyway, I just wanted to say hi, I thought I’d recognized you. But yeah, I hope you’re doing well!”

She’s looking at Trevor like he’s sprouted an extra head, but James sees it. When he takes his hand away, the same golden shimmer that had clung to the tips of Brett’s fingers now shines on Trevor’s. It’s so natural in motion and execution that James can only stare, bewildered, as Mrs. Schultz slowly turns away from Trevor with an awkward, “alright, well, thank you.”

“My god,” James says quietly, watching her go, “you have like, no fuckin’ reservations about looking like a lunatic, do you?”

“I’m dead,” Trevor says dryly, and they both watch as a branch snaps suddenly off a tree above her head and nails her hard. “What do I give a fuck if someone thinks I’m batshit insane? Especially when they’re literally going to die in the next minute or two?”

“...yeah. That’s fair.”

James watches as Trevor holds out his hand again, as the gold light shimmers to reveal Mrs. Schultz looking around in a minor panic. He watches as Trevor kindly leads her by the elbows towards a beautiful looking house squashed between two larger buildings, watches as Trevor points at it and she slowly hobbles her way into the lights. It’s different, in many ways, than how Brett did it but there’s also too many ways in which it’s the same. _Figure out what works._

“Well, that was pretty easy,” Trevor says, and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Looks like it’s your turn, dude.”

It sounds like he’s being sentenced. James stares at the crowd that’s gathered around Mrs. Schultz, hears the wail of sirens in the distance that still reminds him so much of the day before. Now he gets to watch it from the outside, and he’ll have to do it again.

“Yeah,” he says a little meekly. It’s almost like he can feel the weight of the Post-It in his pocket, and he watches as Trevor balls his up and takes a shot at the nearest garbage can with it. They start to walk after that, carefully wiggle their way around the group of people.

That’s when James hears it again.

It’s a scritch, like a squirrel running across the branches above his head. He catches sight of it just as it disappears into the leaves, just the barest glance. All James can see is one foot, gray and skeletal, but just as quickly as he noticed it it’s gone again. Whatever it is, it’s not a bug like he had thought, and he swallows hard. He didn’t like the look of it.

“Trevor?”

“Yeah.” Trevor yawns loudly.

James considers for a second, then decides to go for it. “I think I saw something in the tree. The one that, the one that fell on her. Is that another… weirdo fuckin’ reaper thing?”

He’s half expecting Trevor to look at him like he’s insane, but instead Trevor goes very, very quiet. James walks a little faster to catch up with him again, and when he catches sight of his expression, it startles him. He looks a little shaken, and James watches through the sunglasses as his eyes dart up towards the tree before he walks a little faster.

“Kind of creepy?” Trevor asks in a low voice, and James nods. “Like out of the corner of your eye?”

Again, James nods, and Trevor speeds up more.

“Don’t fuck with those,” he warns, and he sounds serious enough that James doesn’t question it. “Those are gravelings.”

James pulls a face, looks back at the tree as they stop on the corner. Trevor rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet nervously as they wait for the light to change, and James squints at him. It’s weird, how quickly Trevor’s entire demeanor changed, but before he can ask Trevor’s continuing.

“We’re the only ones who deal with them,” he says quietly, and they start to move with the crowd as they cross the street. “They’re… you’re never going to get a really good look at them, I guess. But they’re the ones who, you know, do all the fucked up shit that makes people die.” The expression on his face is a little haunted, a little nervous. “Like. You know. Breaking a tree branch over someone’s head. Or…”

“...or breaking a power line,” James whispers. Trevor nods.

“Seriously, dude,” he warns, and James is inclined to take him very, _very_ seriously, “don’t fuck with gravelings. Even Brett keeps his distance. We just… let them do their thing and don’t question it. The less you pay attention to them the better.”

“What are they?” He’s trying to keep his voice down as much as possible.

Trevor shrugs, still looking troubled.

“Brett says they’re people who died by accident, or, I mean, you know. When someone doesn’t have an appointment but… dies anyway.”

That’s a horrifying concept, and James really, sincerely wishes he could’ve just hopped on over to the afterlife rather than be in the know about all the terrible aspects of this… purgatory they’ve all apparently found themselves in. The thought of becoming a heinous little death monster that apparently actually kills people for the hell of it sounds like a literal nightmare, and he’s suddenly thankful that he’s just a reaper.

Still, that thankfulness fades pretty quickly when they reach his office building.

It looks exactly the same. Nothing’s changed about it, and knowing that he would’ve been staring at it regardless of whether he’d died or not does little to lessen the feeling of it. God. Trevor’s squinting up at it, lifting his sunglasses over his eyes so he can read the sign above the door.

“What exactly was your job?” he asks, and James sighs.

“IT work,” he mumbles, watches as a delivery man walks past them with an armful of packages. “You know. Did you turn it off and then on again? Computers.”

It was as dull as it sounds now, but comparatively it sounds like a dream come true. He remembers when Seamus first called him up, told him that his job search was over if he wanted it. He’d been… pretty desperate for something, and working downtown in the city with one of his closest friends sounded like it had its perks. Now, with this new job, it definitely has perks. He sighs, scrubs his hands down his face.

“I never thought I’d actually miss this place,” he groans, and Trevor laughs next to him. He seems to have gotten some of his good humor back. “God, this sucks. This _sucks._ ”

“Does it at least say the floor number?”

James digs his Post-It out again, rereads it.

“Yeah… fourth floor.” He sighs, leans his head back until he can feel the sun beaming down on his face. That’s not his floor, at least. He looks back down at himself, at his polo with the stupid company name sewn onto the breast. He knows he’s wearing the same clothes, and he hopes he’ll be able to slip by, slip in and out, without anyone noticing he doesn’t actually work there. He sighs again, even louder, and shrugs off his jacket.

“Here. Hold this.”

Trevor takes it, eyebrows raised over his sunglasses, but he must understand because he doesn’t say anything about it, just folds it over his arms and waits. James, for his part, starts to jump up and down a little, tries to psych himself out a bit. _Come on,_ he thinks. _Come on, bitch. Do it. Go in there._

Looking at his phone, Trevor says pointedly, “you have, like, ten minutes, dude.”

“Come on!” James says out loud at himself. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got this. I’ve totally got this. Okay. _Fuck_.”

It smells familiar when he walks in through the sliding glass doors; smells like copy paper and rubber wires and coffee somewhere in the distance, mixed with the sharpness of sunlight that’s still streaming in through the windows. He doesn’t have his clock-in card with him, and anyways that would probably be a bad idea anyway. He’s dead, after all. Still, he manages to walk past the secretary while she’s on the phone, and immediately throws himself into the stairwell.

“God,” he mutters, rubbing at his face with his hands. “God, fuck, _fuck me,_ okay.”

He starts climbing the staircase, tugging himself along on the railing as he does so. He passes a couple of people on the way up, some of them faces he knows, some of them not. He’s not on the fourth floor yet, though, so he keeps going up. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to be on the fourth floor or in the staircase, or. Or _what._ He looks down at his watch, and it’s as he’s rounding the corner of the stairs onto the fourth floor that he crashes right into someone.

Papers go flying as the person yelps and James falls flat on his ass, shouting all the way down in shock. For a moment he’s stunned, half-sprawled on the floor while his butt screams its protest. But then he’s shaking his head, immediately scrambling for something halfway between an apology and an accusation.

“Jesus, man, fuck, watch一 fuck, sorry, I一”

The words die on his tongue.

“It’s fine,” Seamus mutters, already starting to gather up the papers scattered around them. James stares, open-mouthed like a jackass. “Don’t worry about it.”

There are a million thoughts whirling through his head, and most prominent is the immediate panic of being caught, being found out in a deception, before it catches up to him that Seamus doesn’t even recognize him. Why would he? James is dead, and he looks like a completely different person. Seamus has absolutely no reason to believe he’s anyone other than some stupid fuck who just ran into him on the stairwell.

The second feeling is one of utter grief: Seamus looks like _shit._ Poor Seamus, who can’t go a whole week without catching some kind of cold, with his dumb two-toned hair and his perpetually tired eyes, looking like he hasn’t slept at all since the day before. James wonders if he’s seen Jordan yet. He looks absolutely fucking miserable, looks like he hasn’t brushed his hair or had anything to drink. It’s almost flattering, in a way, but mostly it’s just upsetting.

The third feeling, unfortunately, is the one that James voices out loud, incredulous.

“You _came to work_?!”

Seamus squints at him, looking a little confused, a little disgusted, mostly just completely exhausted. Immediately James realizes his mistake, but hey, he’s confused too, and maybe he’s a little hurt. He _died_ yesterday. Didn’t that account for, like, he doesn’t know, _taking the fucking day off_?

“...excuse me?” Seamus says slowly, almost like a dare. James immediately backpedals.

“No, oh god, sorry,” he says quickly, and gets to his feet. “Shit, no, it’s一I heard about what happened yesterday. I’m just一surprised.”

“Well.” Seamus picks up the last paper, and he sounds like he’s already prepared to leave. “I’m glad you think that’s your business at all.”

“Shit,” James says, feeling like a moron. “No, it’s一”

The glare he gets in return shuts him up for a second. This isn’t the usual Seamus, not one of his usual glares he levels James with. It’s not tinged with fondness and sarcasm, he doesn’t roll his eyes and walk away in that way of his that always told James he’d be coming back eventually. No. This Seamus, the one glaring at him, just hates him and wants him to go away. Fuck.

He looks down at his watch as a distraction and his stomach swoops. He’s got less than five minutes, and he doesn’t even know whose soul he’s supposed to take.

“Look, sorry your friend died,” he says in a rush, backing away until he reaches the door. He regrets the words instantly; Seamus visibly flinches, and the papers crinkle a little where he’s holding them. “I’ve gotta… I’ve gotta go.”

He gropes for the handle and turns it, immediately shutting it behind himself and then just trying to breathe.

Oh, he’s a fucking idiot. His throat feels too tight, he’s a bit lightheaded. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might run into Seamus, because he hadn’t thought Seamus would fucking _come to work._ Immediately he can hear Jordan’s voice in his head, berating Seamus for such a thing. _That’s fricking stupid, stay home, don’t go to work._ But the only thing he can think of is that maybe it’s distracting. If he knows Seamus at all, and he does, if he didn’t come to work then he’d just be laying in bed, wallowing in his grief. Maybe a distraction is the only thing that he can handle.

James doesn’t _do_ grief. It’s not in his mental lexicon. But even less is his ability to deal with _other_ people’s grief, as pretty much his only usual solution is to shout until feelings you don’t want go away.

“Fuck,” he says out loud, and checks his watch again. He has no idea how to do this anyway, and now his mind’s muddled with the visual of Seamus staring at him, miserable and alone and pissed off. “God. _Fuck._ ”

He hurries down the hallway, reads the names on plaques next to the door and comparing them to the one on his Post-It. N. Rhodes. None of the names say N. Rhodes, or even anything remotely _close,_ and he’s about to throw his fucking hands up and just roar out the name like Trevor did when a door near the other end of the hallway opens up, and the delivery man from outside makes his way back towards the stairwell. He nods and smiles at James as he passes, and James catches sight of his nametag. Nathan.

He opens his mouth to blurt out the last name on his Post-It when he remembers the look on Seamus’s face.

_Sorry your friend died._

It hits him, then. This person, if it’s the one he’s supposed to reap, must have friends. He must have friends who care about him, who will have to go to his funeral, who will have to go back to work even when it must physically drain them to do so. He might have a family. Coworkers who will miss him. People in his life who will be devastated to find out that he’s died, people who will stare at strangers with tired, tired eyes.

This is another human being, one with emotions, one with a life story that James will never know. He can’t do it. He fucking _can’t._

It’s not fair, to put so much on a single person. He watches as this stranger walks down the hallway, watches as he prepares to head back to his life, not a care in the world. If this is the person he’s supposed to reap, and if James does it, then he’ll never even make it down the fucking stairs.

He looks at his watch. 10:23.

Briefly, he thinks about what would happen if he just… missed the appointment. No one’s told him what’ll happen if he does. No one’s told him much of anything; he’s just been tossed into this entire situation with very little to go off of. His hands are shaking again, and he looks down, thinks of Seamus. God. Fuck. What if he misses it, what if he lets this stranger walk away? One free pass, congratulations, you can go home to your family tonight. No one’s fucking told him what’ll happen.

But then he sees a golden field, and he hears Brett’s voice in his head.

_Without us, those people don’t make it there._

10:24.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

“Hey!” His voice is much too loud in the hallway, and the delivery guy turns, looks a little shocked. James runs up to him, speaking while he does. “Hey, sorry一is your last name Rhodes?”

“Yeah,” the delivery guy says, sounding confused.

James reaches him, and before he can turn back, before he think about it any more, he grabs Nathan Rhodes by the shoulder.

When Trevor had said that James would _know_ , he hadn’t been lying. Immediately there’s a warmth in his hand that James simply can’t describe; it feels as if the warmth reaches for him. It curls around his hand and pulls gently, pulls at him with the determination of a small child that wants to show you their newest toy. He nearly gasps at the feel of it, of this person’s soul reaching out to him. It knows. Fuck, it _knows._ It knows who James is, and what he needs to do.

“Sorry,” he says, and takes his hand away. The soul comes with it, drags against the tips of his fingers and then it vanishes into the air. James blinks, feeling like he’s just touched a wire. His arm is tingling. “Sorry, it’s just一I think we might’ve gone to highschool together. Paul Rhodes?”

It’s a shit lie to get out of small talk he wouldn’t even be able to have, and he knows it, and Nathan gives him an odd look.

“No, sorry. Wrong Rhodes.”

“Oh.” James tilts his head, nods, starts to shimmy awkwardly towards the door. “My bad, dude. Continue.”

Nathan continues to give him that odd, confused look, and James hurries out the door and back down the stairs until he’s on the third floor. It’s fucked up. He holds out his right hand and stares at his palm, but there’s nothing _there._ If he hadn’t felt it, he wouldn’t think he’d actually tugged anything out at all. The door opens up above him, and he looks up, waits.

It’s short. Very to the point. He hears the sharp crack of Nathan’s neck as he takes his tumble down the stairs from the fourth floor down to the middle of the flight, and he wonders if maybe therapy can be included in the long list of things he’s going to gain from whatever fucked up experience this whole reaping situation is. He also wonders how his building’s going to process this whole fiasco. First one of their employees gets electrocuted in the street, then a delivery man dies in their stairwell. Exposure city.

“What happened?” James jumps, startled, as Nathan steps up behind him, peering up the stairs with a look of horror on his face. “Did I… did I die?”

James swallows.

“Welcome to life after death,” he says, and takes Nathan gently by the elbow. “How’s everything feeling?”

The aftermath of it all is weird. He watches as Nathan walks into his lights, watches as he vanishes and the stairwell goes quiet again. The isolation of it all is… terrifying. One moment this person had been living his life, just doing his job一not all that different from James, who had been on his way to work when his life was cut short. And now he’s sprawled on the stairs of an office building he doesn’t even work in, wouldn’t have been here at all if he’d just had a different job, or if the office on the fourth floor hadn’t ordered a package.

He ducks out onto the third floor before someone catches him in the stairwell. It won’t do to be the guy who just walked over a dead body, and he figures he can take the elevator on the other side of the building and quietly leave before anyone notices him or the body. He’s halfway through when hell breaks loose, though, and people start crowding towards the stairwell. Fuck. What does he do if the police come, if they want to start questioning people? Now he wishes he had a damn phone more than ever, that he could call Trevor and send for backup.

Panicking, he ducks into the bathroom to hide, and then immediately fucking regrets it.

Seamus doesn’t exactly notice him right away. He’s leaning against the sink, back to the mirror, and he’s got his palms pressed hard against his eyes. James sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth and freezes, tries to turn as slowly as he can. Oh fuck. He can’t do this. If he walked in on Seamus crying about his own death then James isn’t going to be able to get out of bed tomorrow morning.

“Sorry,” Seamus mutters hoarsely at the same moment that James is trying to inconspicuously back out of the bathroom. He still hasn’t looked up. “Probably should be doing this in the stall.”

James wants to groan, but instead he says weakly, “no, it’s一you’re fine.”

He wonders if there really _are_ rumors, talks and whispers about his death yesterday. Wonders how many people have offered their condolences and how many have just skirted around Seamus awkwardly, not wanting to address the situation. He’s one of those people coming off as the latter, when in reality the only reason he wants to run and hide as far away as possible is because Seamus is his _friend._ Probably one of his closest friends of all.

This sense of loss burning in James’s chest must only be a fucking fourth of what everyone else feels. He can see Seamus. He can talk to him, see his grief and know that it’s real, but Seamus doesn’t know that James is standing right in front of him. James can pretend that his newfound loneliness in his situation can be assuaged eventually, that he can at least continue to look up his friends and family if he really wanted to, if Brett ever lets him, but all Seamus will ever know is that James is dead. That’s the end of that.

He wants to say something witty. He wants to be clever and subtle and let Seamus know that he’s here, he’s _here_ and he sees Seamus hurting, sees him grieving and he wants to tell his friend that he’s standing in front of him right now.

But James has never been clever. He’s never been witty, or subtle. He’s loud and obnoxious and on his best days he can whip out a good comeback or two but that’s about the extent of it. And right now he’s caught up in this moment of pain that he has no way of fixing, he has no way he can make Seamus _understand,_ and as Seamus finally lifts his head and stares at him, eyes red and puffy and without a hint of recognition of who he really is, no _James is that you?_ like the television would have you believe, James says the only thing he can.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, and hurries back out the door as fast as he can.

Trevor’s still standing outside when he manages to get out the door. The police must be on their way, and James wonders at what the people in the city are going to think about all the death recently一but then, he can’t help but think of all the times he skimmed over tweets about the deaths of people he didn’t know. Maybe it wasn’t such an uncommon occurrence after all.

“How’d it go?” Trevor asks, but James just keeps walking past him. “James? Hey. _James!_ ”

“I did it,” he mutters, keeps walking faster. “I just一I need to leave.”

“Was it someone you knew?” Trevor keeps following after him, and he catches up quickly. “James, hey一”

“I need to go,” James snaps, whirling around. “His name was Nathan Rhodes, he was the, the fucking delivery guy, I took his soul, I need to _leave._ ”

Trevor stops dead in his tracks, staring at him with wide eyes. James snatches his jacket out from Trevor’s arms and spins on his heel, shrugs it on as he hurries away. Maybe he sensed something in James’s tone, or maybe he’s a lot more aware than he lets on, but Trevor doesn’t follow him. James leaves him there on the street as he hurries away, keeps walking until he’s almost jogging.

James doesn’t know how he finds himself back at the park, but then he’s collapsing into the first bench he can find and leaning forward into his hands. He’s not crying; in fact, his eyes are oddly dry for the fucking _miasma_ of emotions that have seemed to taken permanent residence inside his chest. But he feels like any second might lead to a breakdown, might lead to him to just fall apart at the seams in a way that can never be sewn back together.

He can’t help but think of Seamus, the last time they had hung out the week before. Tired eyes and bright purple hoodie, pressed up tight against James on the tiny futon in James’s apartment as they laughed and played video games well into the night. James had been alive just yesterday, didn’t have a plan or a future but he had _friends._ He had a life. Ein jumped up on the couch and right into Seamus’s lap, and he scratched her behind the ears and told James he was dumb for eating an entire box of Cheez-Its in one go.

He wishes he could get a hold of himself. He wishes he could get a hold of this _life._ This death. Whatever it is.

“James, right?”

It takes him a second, but when he lifts his head he sees that Anna’s come to sit next to him; or rather, she perches herself on the top of the bench and lets her feet rest on the seat. James looks at her for a moment and then turns away, sees that Asher’s a little ways away with two other people.

“You doing okay?” Anna asks, and her braid falls over her shoulder as she tilts her head to try and get a better look at him.

There’s no right answer for that. James looks down at the ground, doesn’t really have an answer in him. Whatever’s in his expression must say something to her, because she looks up again and waves off Asher and the others. They all give her strange looks but listen, and when James looks up she’s just regarding him thoughtfully.

“Rough day?” she says after a minute, and James laughs bitterly.

“You could say that.”

She hums as she nods, leans forward to cross her arms over her knees. He’s not sure whether he wants to be alone right now or… shit, he really has no idea of what he wants at all. She doesn’t say anything though, only lets him sit in his silence while she joins him in it. She offers no condolences, but she also doesn’t berate him, either.

Eventually the thumping of his heart finally calms.

“I saw my friend,” he says finally, as way of explanation, and he can see the understanding turn to her lips as she nods again. “It fucking sucked.”

“Sounds like it sucked.” She looks out towards where the rest of her group has already walked away. “Have you seen anyone else? Parents? Girlfriend?” She pauses, purses her lips. “Boyfriend?”

He laughs despite himself, even though laughing’s still one of the last things he wants to do right now.

“None of the above.”

“You will, eventually,” she says, rather than lie to him. She’s coming off as someone very matter of fact, and somehow, he appreciates it. “You’re going to see a bunch of people you know. It’s going to suck. But eventually, you deal with it.” Her smile is wry. “Or, you end up as old as me, and no one’s even around anymore. But…” She shifts down, finally sits next to him on the bench. “Until then, just let yourself deal with it how you want to.”

“I don’t know how I want to,” James admits after a minute.

Anna shrugs.

“You will,” she says simply. “One day, you’ll figure it out. We’ll help you out until you do.”

He thinks of the warmth of the blankets from Joe and Trevor’s closet. Thinks of Brett paying for his breakfast, making sure he at least had _someone_ with him instead of just leaving him alone to his own devices. Thinks of the sincerity in Asher’s voice when he asked if he was okay. He looks down at his wrist, at the thick black watch there.

He lifts his head, stares out at all the people in front of them, all the people who get to live their lives for the rest of the day. As far as he knows, anyway. He looks at all of these people on their way to work, all of these people with best friends who love them, all of these people who might have dogs or maybe they just have a boring ass life but they still _have_ it. He doesn’t have his anymore.

“The way I see it,” Anna says quietly, like she can read his mind, “you can spend a hundred or so years being miserable and bitter, or...” She shrugs. “You can make the most out of it. It’s up to you, really. But you can take it from me, being miserable _sucks._ ”

It startles him a bit when her hand comes down on his back, but Anna only rubs a circle or two there before she takes her hand away, tilts her head again to regard him curiously.

“Anyway, I’m heading to the Waffle Haus. You coming?” she asks, and her voice is soft. He looks over at her, sees something in her eyes that tells him for all her endless youth and beauty, she’s seen more than he’ll likely ever be able to comprehend.

It would be very, very easy to be miserable, and he knows that. God, it would be so easy to just give in to it, to spend however long he’s got to do this being just a sorry sack of shit, feeling bad for himself while surrounded by other people doing the exact same thing. He thinks of how he always tried to live his life on the positive side, even when he was bitching loudly about whatever was mildly inconveniencing him at the time. James has always tried to be someone who doesn’t dwell in what-ifs. He thinks of Ein, of his mother, of Jordan and Spencer and Kevin. He thinks of the life he left behind, and the one that’s now in front of him. He can mourn, he can be miserable, or he can fucking do this for as long as he needs to.

He thinks of Seamus, alone in a bathroom.

“Yeah,” he says, and stands up. “Yeah, I’m fucking hungry.”

Anna grins and winks at him. She must see it in his expression, because she stands up too, hooks her arm through James’s as they make their way down the street.

“That’s the spirit,” she says, and this time, James laughs at the stupid joke.

He can do this.

He has to.


	4. helpless to the bass and the fading light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeeee's heeeeere ;) sorry it took so long, yall. thanks for being patient, and for the support along the way. ♥

Six months into being a reaper, James finds himself in the exact same predicament he had the day he died: bolting out his door because he’s late to work.

They’ve been pretty productive months, at least. As adverse as he was to the idea of stealing from dead people, he knew that Joe and Trevor’s hospitality would run its course eventually, no matter how many times they tried to insist otherwise. James also isn’t that big a fan of sleeping on the couch every night. Call him picky, but there it is. He didn’t think dead people could wake up with a sore back and a stiff neck, but he’s learning something new every day.

So he doesn’t want to steal from dead people, but, well, he also doesn’t want to take advantage of the generosity of newfound friends, and he doesn’t want to feel like he’s eighty years old because he slept on a couch.

Asher’s the first one to offer up a solution that really makes James balk: hopping from apartment to apartment of the now-dead people that he reaps. Apparently, he and Jakob did it for years, but it takes nearly an entire week before James can work up the balls to try it. After the initial shock of it, of staying in a dead person’s home, it does sort of click in his head that he’s got to do _something,_ or else be the only homeless reaper of the bunch.

Why does death have to be so fucking _difficult._

So he tries it. When a reap stays by themselves he crashes in their home for a day or two until someone comes along to clean house, and then he’s hauling ass out the window and running for his fucking life. It’s a temporary fix, but not a permanent solution, and he nicks a suitcase from one of them just to hold some of his crap. He picks up a wardrobe along the way, starts to gather more t-shirts and jeans and a sick pair of DCs until he can actually wear something different every day for a week.

But eventually it ends up working better than planned. He lands a permanent apartment in the form of someone without any family coming to pick up their effects. It was depressing, a little, when he asked a dead thirty-something if she had any qualms about him crashing at her place, but, you know. That was going to be an awkward conversation all around. Might as well get it out of the way.

“Nah,” she told him, shrugging. “I mean, life’s a bitch, isn’t it? Go ahead. I’m not using it anymore. Landlord probably won’t even notice as long as you pay the rent on time.”

One of the hipster nihilist types, he guesses, but he’s not going to start complaining about it. So now James has a girly-ish, sort of minimalist apartment, but an apartment nonetheless. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all. He moved things around to his own taste, sold most of her belongings that he wouldn’t need, and it fucking killed him inside for a while. He felt like he was being eaten alive (dead?) by the guilt of it all, but when he finally confessed that to Trevor, Trevor literally snorted at him.

“You _just_ thought to do that?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, and James glowered at him.

“I have fucking _morals,_ Trevor.” He crossed his arms. “Unlike you, you… you heartless bitch.”

That got him a chortle, as if James wasn’t being completely serious. He should know better than to go to Trevor.

He guesses he likes it. He’s certainly not a minimalist kind of person, and the layout of it doesn’t exact fit his personality, but it’s… not bad. It’s relatively cheap, not in the same part of town as Joe and Trevor and certainly not as large. It’s only got one bedroom and one bathroom, tiny little kitchen and an okay living room. She didn’t have any consoles but she has a nice TV, an okay movie collection that keeps him busy for a while. She had a few books, too, but James read Jane Austen for a lame course in college and that shit is far too boring and wordy for his tastes.

Still… no one would ever call him the sentimental type, but he keeps those books up on the shelves, along with some of her plants. He takes care of those, too. It feels sort of like a tribute, or a thanks.

The best part of the apartment, though, is the front window; he’s on the fourth floor, and the window’s huge, and it’s a lovely calming view of the street down below. The last occupant had set up her own little cozy corner on the windowsill, and James finds himself sitting there some days, watching the people down below. Sometimes he completes the look with a goddamn mug of coffee, and he almost laughs at himself. What the fuck is that about, anyway.

He was never one for quiet. It wasn’t like him. When he was alive, James surrounded himself with like-minded people, friends who reveled in loudness, in liveliness. He pulled pranks, shouted at his video games, yelled more than he talked and he barked back at Ein every time she raised a fuss. When he sits there on the windowsill, swinging his leg and staring at all the people beneath him, enjoying their lives, he wonders when that changed about him. He doesn’t necessarily _enjoy_ the quiet, but it’s… softer, somehow, than what he’s used to.

Calmer. He’s calmer, now, when he’s by himself.

It’s an odd thing to have happen, particularly to him. He’s sure “calm” isn’t his permanent state of being now, but he’s also become someone who sits by himself on a windowsill and contemplates life and existence, so maybe being dead just changes people like that. Maybe he’s just having an existential crisis and he’s not even aware of it.

Maybe he’s lonely.

He has no _reason_ to be lonely, is the thing. He’s come to enjoy mornings at the Waffle Haus, laughing over breakfast with the others. He likes going to Joe and Trevor’s to play games into the night, likes how Anna will sometimes sit next to him during the crossover between morning and afternoon and thread her fingers through his hair to get rid of the more stubborn knots. He gets to hear from Lindsey about the Hindenburg disaster, their lone “famous” death, listens quietly to Brett talk about war times with Jakob and Asher, who both died in Vietnam. He learns more about Aron, gets to hear all sorts of crazy stories about him and what they all got up to.

He doesn’t look forward to the daily Post-It, never does, but he’s… shocked, maybe is the word for it, at how _easy_ it’s gotten otherwise. He’s shocked at how easily he slides and clicks into place with the rest of them, as if there had been a spot waiting for him all along. He starts to laugh on the daily again, buys Brett and Joe and Trevor breakfast until he’s made up for all the times they did it for him. He gets an okay burner phone eventually, one with a touchscreen, but he still never takes off Trevor’s watch except to shower and sleep. He texts the others jokes, gets inducted into their group text, goes out for dinner with them that goes late into the night. It’s almost normal.

Sometimes, though, he sits on his windowsill, and he looks down at those people, and he wonders which one of them will be next. And he desperately, desperately misses his friends.

Against his better judgement, he stuck the Post-It with his name onto the fridge, next to some of the magnets left behind. It’s a reminder every morning when he walks out the door that this is who he is now. Taking people’s money after he’s taken their souls and shoving most of it into a coffee can with “ **RENT MONEY** ” scrawled on it and then texting one of the others about where they’re going for lunch. It’s… an interesting life, but it’s a sustainable one, he supposes. The guilt fades, the horror fades, and life after death becomes sort of monotonous.

The hardest part was finally reading about his funeral online. He went to the library and just sat at the computer for a while, staring at one of his dumb selfies smiling up at him from the screen. His new face was reflected back at him on the dark monitor when he first sat down and it tightened in his chest in a way he couldn’t describe. He still misses his old face, his _real_ face, and he knows that’s what he still looks like to everyone else, but damn.

 _25-year-old killed in freak electrical accident._ Of course, he knows better now, knows it wasn’t technically an _accident,_ but, well. That’s what the rest of the world saw, and always will. He still hopes his mom is doing okay, hopes Ein is alright, wherever she is. There weren’t any pictures of the funeral, but he imagines that his friends were there. He still wonders if any of them spoke about him.

When he showed up at Joe and Trevor’s that night, neither of them questioned it.

Slowly the apartment starts to come together. He doesn’t buy a lot, because he doesn’t really _need_ it. Some groceries, a nice set of sheets, a cheap coffee maker, posters that sort of make him happy. It’s not until he’s _dead_ that he realizes how much of his possessions in life had simply been carried over through the years. But he takes care of the plants, and he tries to keep things clean, and life in the weirdest way goes on after it ended.

This morning, though, he’s _fucked._

He has no idea what happened to his alarm at first. He snuffles and blinks into the light pouring through the curtains. He’s got a nice-sized bed, and it’s comfortable, and for a long moment he just wants to sink back into the pillows and the warm sheets and drift back off to sleep. But he shifts, gazes blearily over to find that his alarm clock is blinking red and angry at him, **12:00** over and over again until he furrows his eyebrows at it.

The first thing he sees when he grabs his phone are texts from Joe and Trevor, from nearly two hours ago, and he squints at them.

_hey uhhh Brett’s gonna kick your ass if you’re not here soon dude_

_james you fuckin reject where are u_

Huh. He blinks again, looks at the time. 9:57a. It takes a moment for the numbers to settle in his still sleep-addled brain, but when they do, he swears out loud.

“ _FUCK!_ ”

Immediately he’s throwing the sheets back and diving off his bed, still swearing. He’s never actually been late before; everyone warned him what would happen if he was. So he’s just... never been late. It’s a fairly simple solution, but right now he’s hopping around his bedroom trying to shuck off his pajama pants and also throw his clean laundry onto his bed in his frantic search for a shirt.

“Oh my fucking god, seriously, _seriously_ —fuck—”

He trips on the leg of his pants and eats shit right there on the carpet. For a moment he just… lays there, contemplating his entire fucking existence, and then he’s up again, whipping his pants angrily into the corner and throwing his jeans on. A t-shirt comes next, socks, hoodie, jacket. No chance of brushing his hair so he just lets it hang down around his shoulders and starts scrambling for his shoes, his sunglasses.

It’s so very oddly like the morning he died that he almost laughs about it, honestly. No dog to pet and feed, but he does manage to fill a cup of water and dump it onto the plants. The cup is then hurled into the sink and he’s out the door, barely remembering to lock it behind him. It’s truly amazing sometimes, how similar this life can be to his old one.

He has to weave through the crowd of people down below on the sidewalk, but the Waffle Haus is a lot closer to his apartment than Joe and Trevor’s, and ten minutes of polite jogging and weaving have him nearly there. He’s got to stop at the red lights, wait to cross the street, and he bounces on his feet, pent-up nervous energy running through him. As soon as he bolts past everyone and turns the last corner, though, he can see the Waffle Haus in the distance. That’s enough to make him run the rest of the way; he’s never been late for an appointment before, but more than that, he fears Brett’s wrath.

And Brett’s wrath, as it turns out, comes in the form of being an _absolute_ _fucking jackass_.

“I’m here!” James hollers, practically throwing himself into the bench across from Brett while onlookers stare. He must look like a fucking lunatic, hair all over the place and one shoe not entirely tied, but he just rips his sunglasses off and keeps talking too fast. “I’m here, sorry, sorry, I’m here—”

“Good morning,” Brett says mildly, not looking up from the newspaper. Always the goddamn newspaper. He’s got a cup of coffee in the other hand, and as James pants and tries to catch his breath, he takes a little sip.

“Brett.” James feels like he might throw up. He’s so out of shape.

“How’s your morning going?” Brett continues, still with that light tone as if absolutely nothing were wrong. James stares at him, heaving, and their usual waitress comes around with a mug of coffee for him and some water. He barely manages to look up at her when she asks if he wants the usual.

“Um, uh, no,” he says hurriedly, trying to both smile at her and look sidelong at Brett, who still hasn’t even glanced at him. “No, I, uh, I’m fine. No time. Sorry.”

She nods at him, throws a look at Brett before she’s off again, presumably to tell the rest of the staff how weird they’re being on _this_ fine morning. James just splays his hands against the table and takes a deep gulp of air before trying again.

“Brett, I’m sorry, seriously,” he says, every attempt to sound as sincere as possible, and Brett hums.

“I could swear this was the exact same situation that got you here in the first place,” he says, and turns the paper over. “That’s ironic.”

“Oh my god, Brett. _Please_.”

“Talk dirty to me.” Brett’s voice is dry, but he finally holds out the Post-It, and James grabs at it, reads through it quickly. _A. Marchant, 3rd St. Subway, 10:36a._ He can’t help but groan as he quickly sets the alarm on his watch, shoves the Post-It into his pocket. The fucking subway, Jesus. That has potential to be a gory mess.

He looks at the time, sees that he only has about ten minutes to get there before he misses the appointment. Swearing under his breath, James grabs at his glass of water, drinks it as fast as physically possible without throwing up, and then points at Brett as soon as he’s swallowed.

“You’re an asshole. I’m sorry for being late. Bye.”

“Mm-hmm,” is the only answer, but Brett’s eyes finally flick up to look at him. “Don’t let it happen again.”

“You’re an asshole!” he repeats, louder, still pointing as he backs away and then tries not to run to the door. So much for being quiet. He can at least sort of act like a civilized human now and again, but now’s barely the time for that. He hurries out the door and shoves his sunglasses back onto his face, looks around to try and remember which direction 3rd Street is as he finally ties up his hair with the band around his wrist.

It’s times like these that he especially wishes walking wasn’t the primary mode of transportation for all of them, or at least that he could borrow Lindsey and her car. She’s the only one with any goddamn sense, but then, he’s also not sure how he’d ever be able to _pay_ for a car. Shit. _Shit_. He hurries past people again. If he _does_ make it on time, he still has to figure out who he’s supposed to reap, and God only knows how long that’s going to take. He may have to resort to Trevor’s method, if nothing else.

He keeps glancing at his watch as he rushes through the crowd, side-steps around people until he reaches the entrance to the 3rd St. subway and then he’s hurrying down the stairs, nearly tripping over himself as he does so. He has to swipe his card, which is especially a crying shame because it’s a waste of money; he’s not even going to go on the damn train, likely. There’s plenty of people waiting for the next train, one that’s got to be coming in a matter of minutes, and he looks around frantically. Fuck.

He knows what happens if you do miss an appointment at the exact time, though he’s thankfully only ever heard about it. When you don’t reap a soul before the owner dies, then their soul reflects the _manner_ of death, which seems particularly cruel—Trevor told him once of a person mauled by a bear before he could get to them, and how pissed they’d been knowing they’d have to cross over to the other side with deep gashes across their face. If nothing else it scared James stupid, and he has no plans to condemn anyone to being a fucking mess when they go… wherever.

One minute. James is seriously debating whether to just go for Trevor’s way of doing things—he himself tries to find more creative ways that don’t make him look like a fucking idiot shouting names into a crowd full of people—when he sees them about thirty feet away.

They’re holding on tight to a man’s calves, tiny and skeletal and evil-looking. James has seen them now and again, caught them out of the corner of his eye but he’s never actually _seen_ them until this point, and he wrinkles his nose against the thick burbling horror that rises in his throat. They look _hideous_ , little humanoid things that are bristled across their backs like porcupines. He can see their deep, bulbous red eyes with slits for pupils, their gnarled and clawed hands that are pulling gleefully at the shoelaces of their current ride.

Gravelings.

Fuck. James realizes all at once that the person they’re getting ready to trip must be his goddamn mark, and he hasn’t actually _taken the man’s soul yet._ In a second he’s panicking, rushing forward through the crowd and shoving people aside despite himself as he does so. Fuck, fuck, all he has to do is touch the guy before he trips and… god, however he fucking dies, but he’s not _close_ enough—

They notice him then. Perhaps they can sense that they’re not the only dead thing in the subway anymore, because they both look up and glare at him, and the revulsion that rises like bile makes him nearly gag. They look right at him, right into his eyes, and bare their sharp little teeth at him, making angry noises at him like chittering animals. He glares right back, holds up both his hands as if to say _I don’t have his soul yet, you little assholes!_

Maybe they get the hint anyway, because he watches as they both scatter, run through people’s legs and out of his sight before he can so much as get a _hey_ out at them. Little shits. Not for the first time, James wonders why External Influences are the only ones who have to deal with the little fuckers. He’s met some of the other divisions, of course, in passing, but as Trevor had told him, they don’t have to deal with the fucking spawns of Satan.

He focuses on the guy they left behind, on his shoelaces. James hurries forward as fast as he can. If he can just get to him, just touch his shoulder in passing, he’ll have made the appointment. He’ll have saved this guy from whatever awful fate he’s about to endure, at least have saved him long enough that when he crosses over he’ll be in one piece.

His watch beeps.

“Fuck,” he says out loud, frantic, at the exact moment that A. Marchant trips. “Fuck!”

It happens in a flash faster than he can really comprehend. The guy steps on his shoelace and jerks forward, and James is the only one who sees it. He practically falls over himself trying to reach him in time, and in the process, he sees how Marchant’s arm hits another person in the back and sends them, startled, right into the path of the oncoming train.

Instinct is a powerful thing, adrenaline even more so. Before he’s thought about it, rather than try to catch Marchant he reaches out in the opposite direction. He wraps his fingers around the handle of the second person’s backpack, pulls tight and _hauls_ with an enormous yell. Marchant must turn to see what happened, and James realizes too late that Marchant’s bumped into someone else, tripped again.

It’s just a series of motions too fast to follow. The kid James had pulled back onto the platform yelps and lands right on his ass next to James as they tumble to the ground, and it happens at the exact moment that Marchant cracks his head off the pavement.

There’s a beautiful moment of silence before the world rushes back in.

“...oh my god,” says the kid, sounding stunned, at the exact same moment that James says out loud, “oh _fuck._ ”

He missed the appointment. Shit. Before the screaming can start he quickly reaches out, swipes his fingers across the back of Marchant’s leg as quickly as he can before he’s struggling to his feet while the crowd starts to realize what happened. It takes a second—it always does—and when the screaming _does_ start James scrambles to his feet and backs off, leans against the tiled wall next to the entrance.

It comes to him slowly, heart beating wildly in his chest, and he looks down at his hand.

He hadn’t felt anything.

He’d touched the guy’s leg, albeit too late before he died, but he hadn’t felt the telltale tug and pull of a soul there. No one’s ever told him what that meant, but then, he’s never had to ask. It’s always _been_ there, it’s never come up as a problem. But he stares at his hand, and then he looks up at the body. Marchant’s still laying there face down, blood underneath his cheek, and then once, twice, his body _jerks_ before white smoke starts to pour out of the nose, mouth. It all sifts like sand above him, a cloud of white.

“Holy fuck,” James says weakly, pressing against the wall. “Oh. Fuck. Eww. What the _fuck_ is that—”

It all swirls and coagulates, and James watches in horror as it starts to solidify. No one ever warned him about _this_ shit, and his mouth drops open as red eyes form, as a graveling emerges from the body and then looks over at him, howls in his direction. James flattens himself against the wall, breath coming in too sharp, and he watches as it looks around and then tosses itself through the crowd, vanishes before he can move.

No one else has seemed to take notice; they’re all too busy crowding around like they always do. A few of them have already dialed 911 on their phones, but James just swallows, looks at his watch again. It’s 10:37, and there’s no soul in sight for him to guide.

He’s about to duck out and run when he catches sight of the kid he’d pulled back. He’s still on the ground, headphones tumbling out past the neck of his hoodie, and now that James gets a closer look at him, he’s not really a kid at all. Probably only a couple of years younger than James, if that. He looks stunned, pale from shock and mouth open a little as he stares at the growing crowd of people. It’s so thick at this point that James wonders if he can even see the body.

Well, fuck.

Heart still pounding, James hobbles over and offers up his hand. It’s probably ill-advised, but James feels like every goosebump on his body is raised. He can’t get the sight of the graveling emerging from Marchant’s body out of his head. He doesn’t know what the fuck happened. He didn’t realize that being late would fuck everything up so badly, and fixing this is going to be a nightmare.

If they have to call Upper Management, James is never going to hear the end of it.

“Hey,” he says a little shakily, and the guy finally tears his eyes away from the crowd to look up at him. “Uh. Here.”

He watches the bob of the guy’s throat as he swallows and then takes his hand, lets James pull him back up onto his feet. There’s a moment where James thinks that he might not have it in him to actually support another human being right now, with his legs feeling like they’re made of jello, but the guy straightens himself out well enough and then swallows again.

“Um. Thanks.” His voice is hushed, and James can tell how he wants to look over at the crowd again.

“Yeah, well, you’re welcome,” James says lamely, scratches at the back of his head. Now this is something he especially doesn’t know how to do, especially after months of watching it every single day. You get used to death, when you’re more or less the cause of it, and James doesn’t spend a lot of time with the living in the immediate aftermath. Usually, and at Joe and Trevor’s advice, he books it the fuck out of there. Now, by his own doing, he’s sort of stuck. Already he can hear police sirens in the distance.

“No, I—” The guy clears his throat, finally looks back over at James. They’re nearly the same height, and his gaze is even, though he still seems shook up. “You—I mean, thanks for. You know.” He gestures. “Pulling me back.”

“Oh.” James blinks at him. “Yeah, man, sure. Of course. Um.” He squints towards the entrance, where sunlight is streaming in. “I need to… I need to go, actually, but, I mean.”

“Yeah.” The guy rubs at the back of his own neck, looking lost for words. “Yeah, I—shit, dude. I think I owe you one.”

James nearly laughs at that as it hits him. Someone owes him for _saving their life._ What an odd circumstance he’s found himself in, suddenly. He’s never heard a story from the others about something like this, and it’s quite possibly the most awkward conversation that James has had since he died. Maybe ever.

“Probably,” is what he says, because he’s a dumbass. He has no idea what to say, though. What _do_ you say? What on earth could he possibly say in this situation that will make any sense whatsoever. “But I… really need to go, so. Maybe a rain check on that?”

Whether the guy can sense that James wants to leave because he was just accidentally complacent in a death, or if he has also realized that he’s in the same boat, it doesn’t matter. James sneaks a peek at the crowd to check if anyone’s watching him at the same time that the guy says, quietly, “well, uh, I don’t think I’m taking the subway to work today.”

James snorts. “This seems like prime call-off material, dude.”

The guy’s returning smile is weak, but it’s there.

“Yeah. No fucking kidding.”

Again, James chances looking over at the crowd, and turns back to the guy. “Listen, I _really_ don’t feel like talking to the police today, and my boss is ready to kill me anyway—” _Ha._ “—so, let’s call it even if we both just fuck out of here before the cops show up?” When the guy hesitates, James adds, “you’d have to talk to them, too. I know we didn’t actually do anything but they’re gonna want to interview people.”

“Well… yeah,” the guy says, sounding unsure as his eyes dart over to the crowd again, and James finds himself shrugging before he has to backpedal.

“I mean… if you wanna stick around and see if that guy’s dead or whatever,” he shrugs again, pulling the words out of his ass at this point, “you can.”

The guy looks over his shoulder, still clearly hesitating, and James takes that moment to back away towards the stairs with his hands out. He super does not have the time for this, and he still doesn’t know what the fuck is going on with that graveling. Life after death just got way too confusing.

“Hey, man, look, it’s up to you. But I really—it’s probably, like, callous as hell but I’m just—I don’t want to talk to the police. I gotta go.” He raises his eyebrows, backs away towards the stairs again as the sirens start to get louder. “Come with me if you want to live, and all that.”

He watches the deliberation, watches as the guy turns back one last time before he sets his shoulders and then nods, climbs up the stairs after James before anyone catches sight of them. There are plenty of other people who are coming in and out, the latter more shocked and hurried than the former, and the two of them quickly get lost in the crowd. When James turns to check, he can see the police and the paramedics hurrying down into the subway, and he feels sick.

Brett’s going to have to hear about this, and he’s going to be _so_ pissed. James has no idea why Marchant would turn into a graveling, not when James tried to take his soul. James _knows_ the rules by now. He knows that even if he technically missed the appointment, he was still _there._ He still tried, hadn’t he? He dregs up the memory of the first time he’d asked Trevor about gravelings, but none of that makes _sense._ Marchant had a Post-It, he’d had an appointment. That was why they’d been fucking with his shoelaces, hadn’t it?

“So, uh,” the guy says from next to him, squints into the sun. “I still sort of owe you one. I know you said we’d be even, but...”

James looks over at him, eyebrows raised.

“I mean, I dunno,” he says after a moment. “I didn’t have breakfast today?”

It’s probably fucked up, for him to offer up some kind of late brunch as a way to make up for saving someone’s life in the same moment that someone else _died,_ but, well. He has no other options, and he’s really not looking forward to having to go back to the Waffle Haus and explain to Brett, in explicit detail, how badly he’s Fucked Up.

Shit, Brett probably already _knows._ He has a weird omniscient knowledge that scares the absolute crap out of James sometimes.

To his surprise, though, the guy laughs. It’s still a little shaky, and James watches as he runs a hand through his dark hair nervously, but it’s a laugh.

“Yeah, man. I think I can swing buying you breakfast as a thank you for, for pulling me out of the way of a _train._ ”

James grins at him despite himself, wiggling his eyebrows a little suggestively.

“I’m a simple man. Give me food and I’m all yours.”

The guy wrinkles his nose at him just briefly before letting out a sound like a huff, like a little burst of laughter. It’s endearing, and he sticks out his hand.

“Aleks.”

They’re not supposed to use their real names when talking to the living—unless you’re ancient like Brett or Anna, and just don’t give a fuck—but James has never seen the harm in it. Plus it’s just fucking uncomfortable when someone calls you by a name you’re not used to, and it’s not like James hangs out with the living all that often anyway.

He takes the proffered hand and shakes it.

“James.”

Aleks smiles at him, and it’s a little hesitant, but a second later the mood’s gone as James laughs and tugs his hand away, scrunching up his face.

“Oh, _eww,_ what the fuck, your hand’s all sweaty, dude!”

Well, let it never be said that James is good at first impressions. Aleks goes red in the face and then jerks his hand away, but he’s laughing anyway as he shoves at James a little. It’s all playful, all in good fun, and James can’t help the giggles that come out of him mercilessly. Oh, the look on his face was so worth it. For a moment, James forgets the lingering threat of trouble, of having to explain what happened in the subway. For once, even with death the explicit reason that he’s talking to someone, James can just _talk._

“Of course my hand’s all fuckin’ sweaty, we just ran from a _crime scene,_ ” Aleks counters, but he doesn’t seem truly upset. “Jesus Christ, dude. After— after I offer you food and everything, from the goodness of my heart!”

James’s response is a gentle murmur of a laugh.

“Ain’t no goodness here, boy,” he says in a Texas drawl, and slips his sunglasses back on. “Now lead the way, I’m hungry as _fuck_.”

“You’re making me regret this,” Aleks tells him, not very sincerely. He hitches his backpack a little more firmly onto his shoulders, though, and nods his head in a vague direction. “There’s a little, like, a cafe or something not far from here, I like it.”

James wiggles his eyebrows over his shades.

“A cafe, huh?” he says, because he can’t help himself, “Like a date?”

Aleks flushes dark.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Mmmm, like a _date_ ,” James repeats, only with finality this time, and then laughs when Aleks shoves at him playfully again. Having any kind of situation in his own hands is a feeling James has become wholly unused to lately, and it’s the good kind of weird to just rib somebody without consequence. Aleks is still pink in the cheeks but he’s grinning, takes the jokes in good humor.

As Aleks puts his phone up to his ear to call his job, James can’t help but check his watch again, check his own phone. He hasn’t heard anything yet, but he’s never lived under the old adage of no news is good news. No news could just as likely mean he’s fucked, and Brett’s talking to Upper Management right now, and man, if that’s not the biggest joke of his death; James screwing up hard enough in his first year of reaping that the big guns need to be brought in.

“Do you think that guy’s okay, though?” Aleks asks suddenly after a few minutes of walking, and James… well, he knows the answer to that question. Still, he scratches at his beard and frowns, trying to decide how to word it. He doesn’t necessarily want to lie, but telling the truth is definitely out of the question.

“Man, I hope so,” is what he decides on, finally. Aleks seems to accept that answer easy enough. He points towards what looks like a little restaurant, tucked neatly on the corner, and James recognizes it vaguely from a reap a few months ago. He sort of wants to laugh, because they probably wouldn’t want him there again, but in his defense it had been _outside_ and they hadn’t gotten very bad press over it. They probably won’t even recognize him.

It’s low-lit, more suited to a bar than a cafe, but they get tucked into a little corner together, face to face at the table, and James looks around curiously. Last time he had been here, after all, he hadn’t stuck around for very long. It’s nice, sort of old-fashioned, everything dark reds and oranges and soft, pale yellows. There are a couple pictures here and there of long-dead actors, some candles that undoubtedly get lit later on into the day. There’s pop music playing, but it’s low, enough so that it’s not a distraction.

As soon as they’re settled with drinks and Aleks has shoved his bag under his seat, James cocks an eyebrow over his cup of water, sort of wishing it was alcohol. Aleks is busying himself with his phone for a moment, rapidfire texting with his eyebrows furrowed before he scoffs and then shoves it in his pocket.

“Did your boss take the excuse?” James says conversationally, and Aleks glances over at him.

“Sort of,” he says after a moment. “He just told me to come in at noon. My boss is also my friend, so it’s not like he didn’t believe me, you know? But it’s still, uh, what’s the… far-fetched. I guess.”

“Someone bonking their head off the pavement is far-fetched?”

Aleks grins smugly over his own glass.

“I think the whole nearly dying part kind of gave me an unfair advantage.” His expression goes soft, and then sincere. “Seriously, though, that was really— I mean, I just really appreciate that, man.” Then he laughs. “Is appreciate the right word? I feel like that’s not strong enough. Holy fuck, let me try again.”

James waves a hand. “Go on. I’m good to sit here and listen to you recount my heroic acts.”

Aleks hums another laugh into his glass, and James watches as his eyes crinkle up until they’re nearly shut.

“Definitely heroic,” Aleks says as he puts his drink down again, fiddles with it a bit. “I didn’t even… I didn’t even _see_ him, man. It was like one second I’m bored out of my fuckin’ mind, waiting for the train, next thing I know it’s almost lights out and my fuckin’ life is flashing before my eyes and the last thing I’m ever gonna hear is… what’s her name, that bass chick. No treble.”

James hates that he knows the answer to that question.

“Meghan Trainor?”

“Yeah. That one.” When he sees the way that James is looking at him, he points a finger. “I was listening to Spotify Radio, don’t look at me like that.”

Raising his eyebrows, James takes another, longer sip of his drink until his composure breaks and he’s laughing into his glass. The glare that Aleks gives him is so far removed from any kind of _angry_ that it just makes James laugh harder. He can tell that Aleks is trying to maintain a sort of straight man attitude, but there’s a turn to his lips that betrays him.

“You’re just not gonna let me thank you properly, are you? This is just gonna happen. You’re just gonna make fun of me ‘til I give up.”

“I don’t do niceties,” James explains, leaning back, still grinning. “I do _making fun of people_.”

“Yeah, well. That much is obvious.” Aleks reaches over, rips off a piece of bread from the basket between the two of them and then continues through a mouthful. “I think it’s been like twenty minutes since we met and I already feel like my self-esteem’s taken a huge hit. You’re a monster.”

“Don’t let little old me knock you down.” James turns his glass around in his hands, regards Aleks before he speaks again. He tries to be genuine about it. “I mean it, though. Happy to do it. And, come on, let’s face it, dude,” and here he laughs despite himself, “that would’ve _sucked._ No one wants to go out like that.”

“No, I do not,” Aleks agrees, using his bread to gesture. “I sure as fuck do not.”

James opens his mouth to tell Aleks about the weirdest death he’s seen so far—a man slipping on a banana peel, sliding from the fall into a rotating door, and getting his head crushed, which led to Trevor gagging when James told him about that—but whether by God or someone else, James remembers quite suddenly that he’s not speaking to another reaper. He’s talking to an actual living person.

Wow, and for a second he’d actually truly forgotten he was dead.

“You sure you’re good for work, though?” James asks instead. “Don’t want to get you in trouble or nothing.”

Aleks scoffs.

“Nah, I told you, I’m just gonna go in late. My buddy Eddie’s the manager, he doesn’t mind it,” he says, eating the rest of his bread almost thoughtfully. “Besides, we work at like, a knock-off sort of Gamestop or whatever. I think he can handle it without me for an hour or two. I don’t think he’ll burn the place down or anything while I’m gone.”

Ah, video games. One of the truest ways to James’s heart. He leans forward again, grabs some bread for himself as their server finally wanders over again. It’s the first time James is actually somewhere other than the Waffle Haus or fast food in recent memory, so it takes a second before he can even focus on what he wants to eat. He chooses something relatively cheap—he’s still feeling the sting of having had people pay for his food for so long. He’s not about to have Aleks doing the same thing.

“So what do you do?” Aleks asks him, clearly trying to start conversation. Thankfully, while this is the first time James is really being asked that question, he has his old fallback.

“IT work, mostly,” he says through a mouthful of bread. “You know, being the guy on the other end of the phone telling you how to use your printer.”

Aleks wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at _the other end of the phone,_ and it takes a second before it clicks in James’s head. He wrinkles his nose, has to fight the urge to throw the rest of his roll at Aleks while Aleks does that soft, huffing laugh again.

“Gross, man.”

“You made some innuendo jokes,” Aleks counters. “I get at least one free pass.”

“In your end-o,” James shoots back, a bit childishly. He’ll admit it.

“Oh my god. Really, dude?”

He likes Aleks. That’s the fact of the matter. He’s been hanging out with people he likes too, sure, but he was tossed into that situation with very little else he could’ve done. He doesn’t resent any of his new friends, certainly not when they’re all in the same boat as him, and certainly not when they’ve all helped him out so much, but holy fuck. Getting to talk to another human being who’s not dead or who’s not about to die? It’s refreshing.

It feels normal. He likes laughing and talking about stupid shit over hamburgers with too many onions on it and extra-salty fries. Aleks points out that’s not necessarily breakfast, and James cheerily tells him to go fuck himself through a huge bite. They don’t trade stories of decades ago because they weren’t _alive_ then, and that’s another matter entirely. As much as the other reapers all look like they’re James’s age, for the first time in a while he gets to talk to someone who’s _actually_ as old as he looks, someone who’s living his own life right now without a single clue about the inner workings of death. He’s exactly where James was six months ago.

“I just have the one dog,” Aleks is saying, and he pulls up a picture of a beautiful Keeshond on his phone, shows it to James. She’s got a big old doggy smile, tongue lolling, staring up at the camera like she’s waiting for a treat. “She’s my girl.”

James wants to groan at that. Fuck, he misses _his_ girl.

“Ohh, I love dogs,” is what he says instead, eats a fry. “She’s real pretty. What’s her name?”

“Mishka,” Aleks says, sounding a little proud as he puts his phone down again. “I kind of want a cat, too, but my apartment’s already small enough with her in it, so one day. I take her to the dog park sometimes, she’s got so much fuckin’ energy.”

It’s almost odd, really, how easy it is to talk to Aleks, even while James still envies him a bit. After all, James longs for those days again, craves when everything had been as simple as not having enough room for his dog. He had thought life was complicated, but death’s way more so. He leans back in his seat, crosses his arms as he regards Aleks thoughtfully.

“I wouldn’t mind tagging along sometime, if I can invite myself,” he says after a second or too. “I haven’t been to the dog park in forever.”

“Do you have one?” Aleks says, perking up a little, but James shakes his head.

“Lost her.”

“Oh. Oh, man. I’m sorry.” He sounds sincere about it, and James almost sighs. He is, too. “Yeah, no, sure. I don’t go all that often, mostly I just walk her downtown but yeah. I can text you or something next time we go, if you wanna come…” He trails off, staring at James’s expression for a second, and James watches gleefully as he goes pink in the cheeks. “Dude. Not like a date.”

“Didn’t say it was a date,” James says, and grins cheekily.

“You had a _look._ ”

“What, you’re imagining looks on my face now? You’ve known me for like an hour! That’s discrimination.”

“James _._ ”

“That’s _racist_.”

“ _James._ ”

He can’t help it; he immediately dissolves into giggles. It’s far too easy to get Aleks riled up, to get the color to flood his cheeks and make him sigh and scowl and roll his eyes. All of it’s in good nature, all of it’s good fun, and Aleks must realize that because he sighs heavily and holds out his hand.

“Just give me your stupid phone so I can give you my number and you can come to the stupid dog park.”

James wiggles his eyebrows again at that, but he relents and doesn’t say anything, instead opting to just pull his phone out of his pocket and slap it heavily into Aleks’s palm. It’s glaringly cheap, especially after James just got to see Mishka on Aleks’s shiny iPhone, but, well. He can’t exactly sign up for a phone plan. Aleks, for his part, just draws his eyebrows together as he looks at it for a second.

“I know, I know,” James sighs. “Go on.”

“No, I mean…” Aleks trails off, and the phone clicks as he unlocks it and starts typing in his name, his number. James can see him then calling his own phone for James’s number, too. “It’s just…”

“It’s just _what_.”

”It’s just… how am I gonna send you all the spiciest memes if you’ve got a shit phone?”

James gapes for a second, and then rolls his eyes with a loud, “oh my _god.”_

Aleks wiggles his eyebrows, grinning widely as he hands James his phone back. He’s such a little shit. James likes him, a lot. And he likes that he gets to be the person that he was before his life literally ended. He gets to be _James_ again, save for the way Aleks sees him. Not James the reaper, not James Wilson the dead guy, he’s just… James.

He watches as Aleks checks the time and sighs, leaning his head back with it.

“I gotta start heading out,” he says as he disappears briefly under the table, starts to pull out his wallet from his backpack. “I can’t push it much longer, otherwise Eddie’s gonna kick me in the fuckin’ dick for being even later.”

“Sounds like my boss,” James mutters under his breath, and he finds himself starting to pile up their empty plates out of habit. “You sure you’ve got the bill, man? I can split it.”

Aleks emerges from under the table, a little red and nearly pouting. “I told you I had it.”

James holds up his hands placatingly. “Just making sure.”

They chat for a bit longer as they wait for their server to come back with the bill, and James pops the little mint that comes with it into his mouth. Aleks just shoves his wallet back into his backpack and stands, hitches it onto his shoulders again. All too soon it’s ended, and James is going to have to go back to the Waffle Haus, going to have to go back to reaping, and his lonely apartment.

It’s kind of depressing, but when he looks over at Aleks, it’s dampened somewhat. At least he has another friend now.

“Is it tacky if I thank you one more time?” Aleks asks as they head out the door, and James holds it open for him like a _proper_ gentlemen on a _proper_ date—even if it’s not actually a date. “Because, I mean, seriously dude. I really—you saved my life back there. Like, actually saved my life.”

James just scoffs, pretends to be embarrassed. “Oh, stop, you.”

Aleks laughs, and it’s bright and cheery, something James finds himself wanting to hear again. It crinkles up his eyes again, and... oh, fuck, James is getting soft about him already.

“I gotta go, but I’ll text you!” Aleks calls as he starts walking backwards, and James can see the grin on his face. “See you around, James!”

James waves at him, watches as he turns and starts at a power walk, weaving through the crowd until he vanishes. He sighs deeply, shoves his hands in his pockets. God, he’s probably making a huge mistake making a friend out of the living, but… he likes Aleks a lot. He’s willing to admit it. Not everyday you save someone’s life and end up just clicking with them.

Well. He might as well head back towards the Waffle Haus. He still needs to face the music, needs to tell Brett about the graveling, about everything that happened down in the subway. He’s already not looking forward to it, and he shoves his hands in his pockets as he starts to walk.

His phone buzzes about five minutes later, and he tugs it out of his pocket, looks down and smiles at it as he walks when he sees who it is. As he reads, though, he slows to a stop, and his heart starts thumping loudly in his chest. Everything narrows down to those words, and slowly, he pulls the Post-It out of his pocket, too.

_Just double checking, This is how people make friends right? Get traumatized, run from the police, get lunch_

James wants to laugh. He really does. It almost makes him, but the moment the text lit up his screen, the world seemed to screech to a complete halt under his feet. He stands in the middle of the sidewalk as people pass him by, staring down at the name on his phone. He reads, rereads, stares at the letters on both his phone and the Post-It until it finally dawns on him, the extent of just how badly he’s fucked up.

He swallows, closes his eyes and just breathes for a second before he texts back.

_That’s friendship with me dude._

A couple of seconds later, he gets a reply.

_Guess I’ve got a lot of excitement to look forward to then_

James scrubs his hands down his face, keeps them there until he can even muster up a response. Fuck _._

_Sure do._

Another moment, and Aleks Marchant texts him back.

_Can’t wait._


	5. trying to forget everything that isn't you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are starting to pick up! :O also, turns out that chapter 5 was getting too long, so it's going to be split into two instead. so we'll have twelve chapters now! 
> 
> as always, thank you so much for all the comments and kudos!!! every single one makes me smile. ♥
> 
> also i [have a tumblr](http://myriadus.tumblr.com)! come say hi!

Joe knows something’s up.

That’s the lone problem with Joe. He’s so damn smart and so damn sympathetic that he takes one look at James’s face the next morning and he just _knows._ James can tell he can’t pinpoint what it is, exactly, but Joe’s giving him such a concerned look at breakfast that James knows he can’t just pretend like everything’s fine. Damn him. _Damn him._

Even if Joe couldn’t read him like a book, that’s the least of his problems. James is still just waiting for the hellfire and brimstone of Brett’s rage, and he’s not sure how much longer his asshole has before he’s ripped a new one. He didn’t go back to the Waffle Haus after Aleks texted him, which was definitely another mistake on a rapidly growing list.

Nope. Instead, like a Smart Person, James bolted home as fast as he could and slammed the door shut behind himself, stared at absolutely nothing at all as the dread started boiling in the pit of his stomach. What the fuck is he supposed to do? Aleks had been his reap. Not… not whoever it was who had hit his head on the ground instead.

It was a sick sort of humor, really, when James realized that Aleks was supposed to fall in front of the train after all.

“I fucked it,” he told the plants, because he had no one else to tell about it.

It makes sense, at least. If Aleks was the A. Marchant from the Post-It, then the other guy didn’t have an appointment at all. No wonder he’d accidentally made a graveling. And isn’t _that_ just a whole other issue in and of itself. Did he kill someone? Was that _his_ fault? James knows jack shit about the balance of the universe and all that, so he’s at a loss. Did it cancel out? Well, no. Then he wouldn’t have made a graveling. Fuck. He pressed his palms into his eyes, yelled as loudly as he could without alarming his neighbors.

Oh God. He fucking killed someone.

He balled up the Post-It, shoved it deep into the trash under take-out boxes and empty soda cans. If he got rid of it, got rid of the evidence and then he himself didn’t have to look at it, maybe it wouldn’t be real.

It’s real. It kept him up at night, no matter how hard he tried to fall asleep. He laid in bed, boxers and t-shirt, just staring up at the ceiling with his hands in his hair as the world went on out on the street below. The lights filtered in through his bedroom window and he sighed loudly, looked over at his phone. He and Aleks hadn’t exchanged any more texts since the initial conversation, and he has no idea what to do. He killed someone, another one who was _supposed_ to die walked away, and now there’s a graveling out there, and the likelihood of him being in trouble is… probably astronomical.

He should stop this, before it gets too serious. He’ll have to take the kid’s soul, he already knows it. He has no idea what’s going to happen with that graveling, what’s going to happen with the fact that James didn’t do his job. Can he be fired? What happens if he’s fired? Do they force him to vanish?

He rolled over and yelled into his pillow. What the fuck is he going to do. And he’s afraid to ask about what’ll happen if someone’s soul isn’t taken, if they miss their appointment somehow. What happens to them? If he asks, it could raise suspicion. They could all ask why he wants to know.

The guilt and the worry ate at him until he fell asleep. He wasn’t supposed to _save_ Aleks, and now that he could look back on the situation, it all seemed so fucking obvious. James isn’t exactly the smartest person in the world but damn, he should’ve been able to pick that up pretty quickly. Two people in the subway, one just tripping on his shoelaces and the other one getting pushed into the path of a fucking train. Hmm, James, you _fucking moron,_ which one was supposed to die?

And that raises a whole bunch of new questions that he doesn’t want the answer to, probably ever. What if he _does_ have to take Aleks’s soul? Is Brett going to make him kill Aleks the way he was supposed to die? Is he going to have to lure the poor kid into the subway and just shove him? James can’t do that. Even if Aleks wasn’t a solidly sweet kid, with a dumb laugh and a crinkly-eyed smile一fuck. Shit. Nope. He won’t be able to do that. His sleep was fitful, and he woke up glaring at his alarm clock as it screamed at him.

“Why couldn’t you have fucking done that yesterday,” he snapped, and hit the snooze button almost hard enough to crack it.

But now. Now he’s sitting as casually as he can in the booth next to Trevor, but he can tell that he just looks nervous. He’s been tearing his napkin into little pieces in his lap for about ten minutes, he hasn’t touched his coffee at all, his hair is pulled back so tightly that it’s hurting his head a bit. They’re waiting on Brett, who sent out a text that he had an early morning reap and he’d be there a little after them.

It’s like Brett’s doing everything he can to make James sweat. He orders his usual food if only to throw off any suspicion, but it all tastes like absolutely nothing in his mouth. He eats as slowly as he can, trying not to rush it at all.

 _Be normal,_ he thinks. _Just act normal, you fucking idiot._

“Are you doing okay?” Joe asks quietly, leaning forward, and James swallows his mouthful of eggs with a bit of difficulty.

“I didn’t sleep last night,” he says, having thought of the excuse when he first sat down. “I didn’t think it would actually make me feel like such shit.”

“Oh.” Joe blinks at him, but he looks relieved. “I guess your mind can make you feel like anything. I’m glad that’s all it is, though.”

Ah, well. That’s a wrap. James is definitely going to hell for lying to poor sweet Joe.

He’s not even sure why he’s lying at all. If Brett knows, and he almost certainly does somehow, then it won’t matter if James lies to anyone because Brett’s just going to annihilate him as soon as he gets to the Waffle Haus. Maybe he’s lying to save what little reputation he has left among friends, or maybe he just doesn’t want to explain what happened. Maybe he just wants to keep Aleks a secret. He genuinely doesn’t know. All he _does_ know is that however this ends, he’s fucked.

He pokes at his eggs with his fork and then stabs at them, shoves the chunks into his mouth before he looks too suspicious again. Trevor, for his part, seems to have fallen back on his usual method of not caring about anything, because all he does is look sidelong at James for a long moment before going back to his own meal. James feels grateful for that, at the very least. Trevor won’t push.

“Good morning, boys.”

Brett’s usual greeting sounds much more like a threat to James’s ears, and he can feel his stomach swooping right down to his toes. His fingers tighten on the fork and he hurriedly shoves more food into his mouth. This is the moment of truth; he hopes Brett at least goes easy on him in front of the others.

“James.”

Oh god. Here it is, and so soon. James flicks his eyes and his eyebrows up, stares between Brett’s eyes while he slowly eats his eggs. Brett’s looking right at him as he slides into the booth next to Joe, throws his newspaper down onto the table with an audible slap.

“Nice of you to join us this morning,” he says, looking at James with a very pointed expression.

There’s snickers from around him, and James swallows his mouthful.

“Anything for you, Brett,” he says, and amazingly his voice doesn’t warble. Brett huffs a laugh at him, rolling his eyes as he rests his elbow on the top of the booth and smiles up at their server when she swings by. James just stares at him for a long moment before reaching out for his toast, crunching down on it nervously. So that’s how it’s going to be, then. He’s going to make him sweat. Jesus Christ.

“Well,” Brett says after their server walks away again, and James holds back the wince, takes another bite of toast before he’s done with the first one. “At least you made it. Good job.”

Wait.

James looks up at him a little too sharply, cheek bunching out with how much bread he’s just shoved into his mouth. Brett’s not looking at him, but rather at the newspaper again, and James squints for a moment. He’s completely confused, one-hundred-percent dumbfounded. Slowly he swallows, then tilts his head, zeroing in on Brett’s newspaper as a headline catches his eye. _**Tragedy Strikes as Newlyweds Drown in River.**_

Something clicks, just then. He tilts his head, scans with his eyes until Brett turns the paper over, and一

_**Man Dies from Accidental Fall in Subway.** _

He blinks, scooches a little closer on the bench to read the article as best he can.

 _A man was declared dead at the scene in a midtown subway station Wednesday morning, authorities said. The name of the victim has not been released_ 一

Something settles in his stomach, turns the tips of his fingers numb. He leans back, looks up at Brett again.

There are tells, when Brett’s angry. James has come to learn a few of them because unfortunately, as much as James might be dead he still regained pretty much every aspect of his personality from life, and that involves a lot of arguing where it’s probably unneeded. But none of those tells are _there;_ Brett’s relaxed, drinking coffee, reading his stupid paper like always… and now James understands the paper. He gets why Brett reads it every morning; he’s doing _follow-up,_ he’s making sure they actually got to their appointments the next day. And that means…

Oh, holy fuck.

Brett doesn’t know.

Somehow, that fills him with the weirdest sense of dread that’s combined with relief. Brett doesn’t know that James fucked up and missed his appointment, doesn’t know that James accidentally created a graveling. He doesn’t know that Aleks Marchant is still walking around, very much alive, and more to the point, he doesn’t know that James has kept that a secret since yesterday.

James can’t decide if he’s lucky or not, and he chews that thought over along with the rest of his bacon.

Because… well, if it had been a serious matter, wouldn’t Upper Management have contacted them? Wouldn’t they have _told_ Brett? They have to know that something’s up, that’s what they’re _there_ for. Or, at least, that’s what James has gathered from the bits and pieces of information he’s been given. Upper Management’s in charge of a lot of things, and apparently keeping the balance is among them. Had the balance been kept because someone died anyway?

It’s a question he’s not sure he wants the answer to, and as he looks surreptitiously between the others, keeps his head down and only moves his eyes, he realizes that they don’t know either. He remembers then, with a clarity, one of the earlier days when he’d still been real new. He’d taken the Post-It from Brett and said in a sour voice, “so, how’s this person gonna die today? Fuckin’ bomb in their car?”

Brett had just shrugged. “Fuck if I know,” he replied, looking bored. “I don’t have that kind of clearance.”

He thinks he might’ve gotten lucky here. The thought does occur to him, to tell the truth. After all, he had accidentally had a hand in an innocent person dying, in being turned into a graveling. James doesn’t know much about the afterlife, despite the amount of times he’s gotten to longingly stare at it, but he’s pretty sure being a graveling is a condemnation he doesn’t want. And, well, who’s to say that Aleks’s name won’t show up on the list today? Upper Management doing some housekeeping and saving James’s ass all in one?

He’s not sure if he’d consider that a second chance or not.

And more to the point, he’s not sure if he could _do_ it. Sure, it’s one thing to take someone’s soul when all you’ve got on them is their name, but… well. James doesn’t know all that much about Aleks, either, but he knows he’s got a dog named Mishka, a friend named Eddie, works at a game store. That’s way more than James usually goes on, and a sick feeling he thought he’d buried starts to rise in his throat again.

Ah, fuck. That’s probably exactly what’s going to happen.

He tries not to hold his breath when Brett starts writing out the Post-Its. It’ll bring too much attention to himself, but he finds that he’s _nervous._ He’s nervous that he’s going to get Aleks’s name, or worse, one of the others will get it instead in case he can’t be trusted with it. Somehow that option worries him even more than if he got Aleks’s name himself. Or, an even more unsettling option, afternoon shift gets him instead and James won’t even _know._

When Brett hands him his Post-It, all of his breath comes out of him in a relieved sigh. _D. Reilly._ Not Aleks. That doesn’t cover any of the other problems, but at the very least he won’t have to do it.

“What was that about?” Joe asks curiously, and James scrambles for an excuse as fast as he can make it up.

“Uh, oh, you know,” he says, trying not to sound hurried as he busies himself with setting the alarm on his watch, “still kind of... half-expecting a name I know to pop up eventually.” He looks down at the Post-It and almost sighs again. Two for two, now, he’s lied to Joe. It feels gross, and he’s a little unhappy with it. Joe never did anything to deserve being lied to, and certainly not twice. Damn.

“It’s an eventuality,” Brett says, tucking the notebook back into his jacket. “Gotta brace yourself for it one day.”

James swallows.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Brett gives him that knowing look, the one where his head is tilted down and his eyes are up, the one that James _hates._ They all start stacking their plates, throwing money down on the table as usual, and then they’re off. James is used to the routine of it by now, pops his sunglasses onto his face, holds the door open over Joe’s head as he leaves. Joe’s looking at his Post-It, and struck by a thought, James leans over as much he can to read it.

Brett’s handwriting is messy enough on a good day, though, and he can’t get a good look at it. It’s made worse by Joe looking over at him, eyebrows furrowed over his sunglasses, but James just looks away immediately, shoves his hands in his pockets.

He’s too obsessed. James knows that. He needs to pull back and reassess this entire situation. Because… man, at the end of the day Aleks is still just a kid he met yesterday. Yeah, he really likes him, and thinks he’s pretty cool, and… yeah, James knows way too much about him to be able to do a reap objectively, even if what he knows is really nothing at all. Shit. He needs to calm down.

They wave goodbye to Joe, who’s heading in the opposite direction, and James scratches at his bun a little. He feels a bit frazzled.

“Where are you headed?” he asks Trevor, and Trevor shrugs his shoulders.

“Some supermarket, I guess,” he says, looks over. “You?”

“Bank.” James sniffs when he looks up and the sun beams down onto his face. “Maybe I’m gonna be part of a robbery or something. That might be cool.”

“Sounds like the most interesting thing that could happen to you,” Trevor replies, and yawns. “Dude, you were so close to getting your ass reamed yesterday, you’re lucky you made the appointment or Brett would’ve been fuckin’ pissed.”

“You know,” James says dryly, not correcting him, “I sort of figured that out on my own.”

Trevor’s returning smile is sort of private, and he shrugs again. They’re at the corner, waiting patiently, and as James looks out at the buildings, and the people walking by, he catches sight of a young couple holding hands. It brings up an interesting thought, one he’s going to try _very_ hard not to address, but he lasts about thirty seconds before he finally asks.

“So has anyone ever, like… started a relationship with someone still living?” He tries to sound as innocent as possible in the question, but Trevor turns to look at him with his eyebrows together.

“Uhh, yeah, no? I would not suggest it,” he says, incredulous. James glares at him. “Asher did something stupid like that in the 70s and it fucked him up bad for a while, dude. He’s over it now, I think, but seriously. That’s a stupid fucking idea.”

“I didn’t say I was _doing it_ , Tre- _vor_ ,” James says snidely, mentally making a note to talk to Asher eventually. “I was just wondering. No need to jump up my fuckin’ ass.”

“Well, yeah, seriously, don’t do it.” Trevor jams the crosswalk button when they get there. “Like, you can _fuck_ someone一”

“ _Trevor!_ ”

“I’m just saying!”

‘You’re too young to be saying shit like that!” James says, appalled and with a hand over his heart. Trevor rolls his eyes.

“I’m like… almost old enough to be your teenage dad, dude.”

“You’re a _child!_ Trevor!”

“Oh my _god_ , shut _uppp_.”

They bicker like that until they have to part, Trevor arguing the merits of how long he’s been on the planet verses how young he looks; James is firmly on the side of _you’re a baby forever, stop it, don’t ever say you know anything about sex ever again._ He gives Trevor a shove as they part, Trevor muttering “stop, stopstopstop,” the whole time and cringing away from him with his arms out, and for the first time since the day before, James forgets about his dilemma for a while.

The bank in question is the old one he used to cash his checks in. He squints up at the name of it, checks his Post-It again. Yep. He pokes his head in through the door, takes a look around. Banks are easy; he’s done reaps in one or two of them, and with people flinging their names left and right it’s not that hard to figure out which person you’re supposed to go to. He finds Deidra Reilly filling out a deposit slip when he takes a peek, fakes a fall and catches her by the shoulder to avoid the landing.

“Oh, Jesus,” he says, swipes his hand away as the gold flickers into the air. “I’m really sorry about that, ma’am—”

“No, you’re fine,” she says, smiling genuinely at him, and he books it out of the bank just in time for her heel to get caught in the slats of the air vent on the floor. He doesn’t watch, but he can figure by everyone shouting and bolting that she either broke her neck or bashed her head on the way down, and he winces a little. It makes him feel a bit sad; after all, she’d seemed very sweet.

“Oh...” she says, when he gives her a gentle nudge towards a glittering shoreline, with sparkling golden waves and starfish scattered in the waves. “Oh, damn. I knew I shouldn’t have worn those heels.”

“We all have that thought,” he says, not unkindly, nudges her again until she starts to walk towards the sand. “Go on. Have fun.”

The rest of the day is his, which always poses the biggest problem. Without a job, and with no friends outside of the other reapers, it gets boring real fast. He’s been trying to save up for a console, since a computer would be way too expensive and he’s not about to steal one. What if they can track it? So he watches Netflix mostly, uses some stick thing he stole from a reap that plugs into the TV. Slowly he makes his way through each genre until he’s bored stupid, and when that’s too much he starts rewatching some old favorites. He even tried to read some of the books left behind, but he hated Jane Austen in college and he fucking hates her now, too.

And so his mind wanders back to Aleks.

He ducks into a convenience store, picks up a sandwich and some Diet Coke before he makes his way to the park to sit for a while. As he eats, watches people walk by him, it hits him then that maybe the reason he was so desperate to keep Aleks a secret is because it’s fucking _embarrassing._ How can you do your job _that_ poorly? It’s got to be a pride thing. James has never exactly had a reputation as the most humble of people一it’s what his and Jordan’s fight had been about, after all一so it makes sense that it’d be a pride thing.

Likely, it’s also a selfish thing. James… James wants someone else in his life who isn’t a damn grim reaper, or a waitress. He just wants someone to sit around with again, someone to just shit talk video games and bad movies and whatever else comes to mind. It’s a selfish thing and he knows, in the depths of his conscience, that it’s a selfish thing. But, well, that whole lack of being humble thing.

Maybe it can work.

His phone clicks as he unlocks it, and he stares a little uncertainly down at the contact information. _Aleks Marchant._

Finally, and very hesitantly, he opens up the info, selects edit, and deletes the last name. It feels wrong, somehow, feels like he’s covering his tracks. But… but maybe he can see how it goes. See what happens. If no one points it out to him otherwise, maybe there aren’t any consequences to it at all.

He can hear Jordan’s voice in his head, berating him. _That’s stupid and you know it, James._

Shoving his phone back into his pocket, James stands up, brushes the crumbs off his shirt and sniffs loudly. He then narrows his eyes up at the sky, mouth a little open with it. He has absolutely nothing to do with the rest of his day. He’s going to ignore that shitty, know-it-all voice in his head, and he’s going to see what he can get up to until tomorrow. For a moment he considers texting Aleks… but no. No, for right now that’s probably a bad idea.

Growling impatiently, James stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and heads back to his place.

So life goes on, then. Or death, whichever. He collapses face first into his bed as soon as he gets home, groans into the pillow, and eventually watches TV for the rest of the night until he thinks his brain might melt out of his skull. Orders pizza, shoves the rest of it that he doesn’t eat into tupperware, and goes to sleep. He’s aware of how fucking sad his undead life’s become at this point.

But there are several points during the night that he grabs his phone, drafts a message, deletes it and scrubs at his face with both hands until he can convince himself it’s a bad idea. Wash, rinse, repeat. He wakes up, glares at his alarm, goes to work. The monotony continues, and still his phone doesn’t buzz. Maybe that’s for the better. Maybe James should just… put Aleks out of his mind for good, and go back to his boring, uneventful life after death.

Shit.

“Well, don’t you look like something the cat dragged in.”

It’s four days later, and James is fucking exhausted. It’s been four _very long_ days, a lot of tossing and turning in bed, trying to assuage a guilt he’s still not sure is even going to amount to anything. They’re all in their usual booth and James, half-asleep, is leaning with his back against Trevor’s arm rather than facing the table. Trevor’s letting it happen with good humor, which leads James to believe that he’s enjoying the understated affection, the tactile comfort of two people touching. It’s nice.

He blinks tiredly up at Brett, half-slumped in the seat as he turns and paws at his mug, twists it around on the tabletop until he can pick it up. He hasn’t been sleeping well, for… for a lot of reasons, but it’s like Joe said. Even if technically he doesn’t really _need_ sleep, it’s still nice to have.

“Bite me,” James mutters, slurps loudly and obnoxiously at his coffee. Brett sighs pointedly as he sits down next to Joe, rolling his eyes. James just keeps on drinking, glaring at Brett from over the rim of his mug with the most deadass tired expression he can manage.

“Anyway,” Brett says, concise and clearly ignoring him, and James glares harder, “if James is done making a spectacle of himself一”

“When I’m _dead_.”

“一Trevor, you’ll need to head out right now, your appointment’s early.” He holds out the Post-It. “Go make Daddy proud.”

Trevor groans loudly, and James can feel the rumble of it in his back. He’s jostled as Trevor reaches out for his Post-It, but he doesn’t move from his spot where he’s leaning against him. It’s comfortable, and he sips at his coffee again, letting his eyes flicker closed until Trevor has to nudge him gently.

“James, dude, seriously.”

“I’m up,” he mumbles, and pulls himself out of the booth. “Go attack the day or whatever.”

Trevor’s awkward shoulder clap has him swaying a little bit, and once he’s gone James practically collapses back into the seat, sets the mug down on the table and sprawls out. The seat is worn and cracked in places, but it’s warm from where Trevor had been sitting and already James is missing the contact a bit. He wasn’t always the most physically affectionate individual in life, not _always,_ but as with many things, a lot changed when he died.

“James. Your hand, please.” James holds out his hand without moving at Brett’s prompting, and a Post-It is stuck hard to the tips of his fingers. “Thank you.”

“Whatever,” James mutters, reads it with his hand still outstretched above him. Maybe, just once, someone could actually not die in this stupid city. He thumps his foot a couple of times against the wooden foot of the bench as he pulls his arm back down, starts setting the alarm on his watch. He has a couple of hours to kill, and it might be worth heading back home to take a nap.

He sighs. He can’t do much more of this. Something needs to change.

As if on cue, his phone buzzes in his back pocket and he jumps, twisting a little on the bench to tug it out. He holds the phone up above his face and stares for a moment at the name, breath catching a bit. Aleks has sent him a picture of his dog, her nose practically pressed against the camera, big dark eyes wide and her happy puppy smile showing off her teeth and her tongue. Underneath are just two words.

_Dog park?_

Suddenly much more awake, James sits up. His phone stays lit for a moment and then goes dark, and he stares at his fake reflection. He’s wide-eyed, looks a little stunned. It’s not that he had forgotten, but it’s that he’d managed to put it out of his mind. He’d convinced himself he wouldn’t see Aleks again, and maybe it would be for the better. But right now, as his phone lights up again to remind him he has a new text, he realizes that not only was Aleks staying true to his word, but…

But that meant his name didn’t show up again on the list, morning _or_ afternoon.

Carefully, glancing over at Brett and Joe to make sure they’re distracted一and they are, thank God一he types out a response.

_Gotta be somewhere around ten. Got time for me until then?_

He hits send and holds his breath.

_That’s up to Mishka_

Another moment, and he gets a second response while he’s still writing out his own.

_It’s cool with me though :)_

He has a choice to make here. He could go to the dog park, and hang out with someone whose soul he was supposed to reap, That could end up being a mistake, or it could… it could fix whatever sort of hole he’s started to dig for himself. Maybe he could actually start to feel his original version of normal, not this new normal that he’s come to accept more out of necessity than anything else. He stares down at his phone, at the picture of pretty Mishka, at Aleks’s name.

_See you at the doggy park then_

He gets a thumbs up emoji in reply, and he lets out his breath at last, a long exhale as he shoves his phone back in his pocket. Brett and Joe are still talking, a surprisingly detailed account of movies in the mid-40s, and he clears his throat a little quietly, gathers his and Trevor’s plates.

“I’m going to try and get a nap in,” he says, and he’s shocked at how calm he sounds. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

He’s half-expecting Brett to suspect something, or Joe to ask him if he’s sure, but they both nod their heads at him. Neither must suspect a thing, neither of them must have noticed his phone. It’s… weirdly fortuitous, if that’s the word he wants to use. Maybe he can get away with it after all.

“Later,” Joe calls after him as he leaves, and he waves. Brett just gives him one in return before they’re back to discussing war-era cinematography, which is a little baffling, but James takes it in stride as he hurries out the door. Part of his brain is screaming, _mistake, bad mistake, Bad Mistake you fucking **Idiot** , _but he ignores it. It’s the same dog park he used to take Ein to, and he remembers the way easy enough.

The deliberation still claws at him even when he’s made up his mind. Meeting Aleks again could be a huge mistake; what does he do if someone catches him somehow? What if Brett and Joe follow him because they don’t believe the nap story? Immediately he turns around, checks over his shoulder, but no one’s trailing behind him that he can recognize, and he hurries a little faster down the street.

He stops when he reaches the outside fence.

All at once it hits him, the gravity of the choice he’s about to make. He could still go back. Cancel, say that he got called into work. He could stop this, before it becomes a mistake he can’t undo. He’s not in any deep shit yet, with his own boss _or_ Upper Management. He could be tempting fate. He could be bringing attention to the fact that Aleks never died, and then he could get in trouble. Deep trouble. He could turn away.

But there’s someone sitting near the fence about ten feet away, and when they wave their arm at him, James’s heart jumps in his chest.

“Long time no see,” Aleks says as soon as James is close enough. He’s sitting cross-legged, Mishka settled peacefully in the dip between his knees, and she looks up at James with curious eyes. Aleks himself looks healthy, doesn’t look like anything dreadful has happened to him in the last couple of days, and he’s wearing a purple hoodie that reminds James suddenly of Seamus.

“Hey,” James says as evenly as he can, and sits down next to him on the blanket he’s laid out. “No subway accidents since we parted ways, I hope?”

It’s a dark joke to make, and James regrets it immediately, but Aleks just laughs softly at him as he rubs Mishka behind her ears. She looks delighted by it.

“Nope. Haven’t been tossed in front of a train in like, five whole days.”

“A new record,” James replies, and gestures at Mishka. “Can I?”

Aleks nods instantly, and James lets his fingers pass through soft fur. She immediately licks his hand once and then goes back to panting, looking thrilled at all the attention. She’s even prettier in real life, lots of dark grey fur and markings like a mask around her eyes. James feels a pang of longing for his own dog, misses when she was just a fat little puppy that tried to chew through all his wires.

“I think now we’re officially even,” Aleks tells him, and lets go of Mishka as she hops out from the fold of his legs, starts to lick at James’s hands more insistently. “Wow, she likes you.”

“I’m likeable,” James replies, pretending to be wounded. He tries to be subtle about it, but he gives Aleks a once over to make sure nothing’s wrong. He really does seem just fine, like he wasn’t supposed to die five days ago, and James almost huffs out a laugh. Instead he channels it all into playing with Mishka, rubbing her all over her face and down her back. She’s loving it, eyes closing and tail wagging.

“She _really_ likes you.” Aleks laughs a little. “Jesus, Mishka.”

“Did you tell her about my heroic deeds?” James asks, leaning his face in so she can smother him in doggy kisses. He sputters immediately, laughing. “Maybe that’s why she likes me so much.”

“I think I may have mentioned it,” Aleks says, and shakes her backside with both hands as she turns, barks happily at him. He slams his hands down onto the grass and she immediately crouches, poised to spring at him. Her tail is moving a hundred miles an hour, but it freezes when he stares at her. “Regaled her or whatever the word is. Hey!”

On the word she pounces, butts right into his arms, and James finds himself staring at that stupid smile again. Crinkly-eyed and just unreservedly _happy._ He leans back on his hands, feels the soft mesh of the blanket under his palms.

“Why Mishka?” he asks, curiously. “Never heard that name before.”

At that, Aleks huffs out a laugh.

“It’s, uh, it’s Russian,” he says, ruffles her ears. “It means… it means kind of like, uh, _teddy bear_.”

 _He’s cute,_ James’s mind immediately screams in horror. _This is bad._ _Get out of there, you fucking idiot._

“Teddy bear,” he repeats slowly. “In Russian.”

“Yep.”

She starts jumping around when Aleks digs around in his backpack, produces a bag of dog treats that he immediately pulls open to catch her attention. Mishka’s positively delighted, but nowhere near as delighted as her owner looks when she snatches the treat right out from between his fingers.

“She’s kind of,” he starts, stops, starts again because he’s still smiling. “She’s kind of calmer when we’re at home but I think she’s happy because now she’s getting, like, double the attention.”

“I’m like that, too,” James replies, and claps his hands once. She immediately descends upon him, and he falls back with a giggle. She’s all over him in a second, happily licking at his face until Aleks has to reach over and picks her bodily up.

“ _Mishka!_ ” He’s laughing, even though his tone tries to be chastising. “Sorry, I really don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s not一she’s not usually like this, I swear. It’s weird.”

It occurs to James, weirdly, that maybe that’s because he’s dead. He’s never really asked if he gives off some sort of… he doesn’t know, supernatural aura or if he’s just appearing as some normal dude. Mishka seems to realize that he’s not your typical average guy, though, because she keeps coming after him, tries to lick his face and barks excitedly whenever he moves. Aleks tries in vain to keep her calm, rubbing her all over her head and across her back.

“Mishka,” he says sharply, pronounces the _i_ more like an _e._ “Stop, come on. You’re making us look bad.”

“I promise she’s not,” James says, still laughing as she wags her tail at him. She’s started to calm down a little bit, like she’s getting used to him, and James _really_ has to wonder if he’s nailed it on the head. Maybe that’s exactly what it is. He’s dead, and she knows it, and she’s just trying to play with him. “I’m telling you, this is pretty much the perfect morning for me.”

She finally settles after Aleks has rubbed and scratched at her ears enough that she flops down, but she continues to pant and gaze up at James with what can only be described as an adoring look. He’s going to have to ask about that at some point. He’d always thought that dogs barked nonstop at ghosts and spirits, but then again, he’s still not sure if he even _is_ a spirit. With very few exceptions, as far as he’s aware, he passes for a totally regular human being.

“So I know you said it means teddy bear,” James says as he rubs at Mishka’s ears, “but why Mishka?”

Aleks shrugs.

“Fits her,” he says, and pats her butt a couple of times. “Look at her. She’s fucking adorable.”

James isn’t really any sort of individual who can question someone’s naming choices for their pet, given that he named his after a Corgi from an anime, but he does anyway.

“So did you just… I mean, like, did you just start plugging ideas into Google Translate, or…”

At that, Aleks’s grin twists into something wry. He looks amused by that comment, and when James narrows his eyes in question at him, he laughs.

“Well, I’m… I’m Russian, so no,” he says, and yep, he sounds very charmed by James’s confused expression. “It was pretty easy to figure out.”

“You’re…” James squints at him. “No you’re not. You speak, like, perfect English.”

That gets him both of Aleks’s eyebrows raising. Then, and to James’s complete shock, he says something in Russian, thick and lower in pitch than his regular speaking voice. James stares at him for a second.

“...Coca-Cola?”

Aleks laughs, sounding delighted, and repeats himself.

“I don’t…” James squints at him. “Those aren’t words. Are you cursing at me? What the fuck?”

Still laughing, Aleks shakes his head.

“I called you an _ass shark,_ ” he says, and he sounds so fucking amused that James can feel his ears turning red. “I came here when I was eight, still have the green card and everything.”

“Oh, you’re sneaky,” James accuses, points a finger at him. “You’re very sneaky. What the _fuck_ is an _ass shark_?”

“I don’t know. I kind of just came up with it on the spot. Anyway, she was all fuzzy and little, like a teddy bear.” He lowers his face onto the top of Mishka’s head and gives her a gentle kiss there, rubbing at all the thick fur on her breast. James watches as she lifts her face and gives him another lick, adoring and familiar. “So, yeah. Mishka.” He says it with the same thick inflection as before, and now James can hear the accent there.

“You know…” James says slowly, a grin creeping onto his face, “that would explain why you spell your name so fuckin’ weird.”

Aleks rolls his eyes. James is pretty sure he’s already heard that one, but he’s taken the low road before and he damn sure will take it as many times as necessary. Still, Aleks is looking at him with a faintly… it’s almost a fond look, maybe, as he keeps petting his dog in thick, rapid strokes through her fur, and it feels normal to just sit with someone in the morning sun and bullshit while the rest of the world goes on around them.

“I guess I can’t say anything,” James continues, and lays down on the blanket. He shuts his eyes, lets the sun warm his face up. “I got the same name as a fuckin’ House character. I heard that one in high school probably almost as much as you’ve heard about your fucked up name.

“I never watched House,” Aleks admits, but James can hear the smile even though his eyes are closed. “And my name’s not fucked up.”

“It’s a _little_ fucked up.”

“Get ‘im, Mishka,” Aleks says immediately, and Mishka’s pounced right onto James’s stomach, making him lurch up and groan before she’s licking at his face again and barking, her tail wagging wildly. James wraps his arms around her and laughs between sputters, trying to keep his face out of range.

“I surrender! Augh!" He spits when she licks at his mouth. "Fuck _me_ , okay, okay, I _surrender!_ ”

“No mercy,” and this time Aleks is using an overly thick Russian accent, fake and comical. James screeches; Mishka’s all over him, wiggling like a maniac and barking at him as he tries in vain to cover his face with his arms.

“Please!” James rolls onto his stomach and Mishka starts barking again. “Please, I’m done, I surrender, no一no more, _please!_ ”

He can still hear Aleks laughing at him, but he calls Mishka off with some kissing noises; she trots back over to him like it’s nothing, and James peeks out from the protective circle of his arms where he’d been hiding his face. Aleks is smiling smugly at him, gone back to petting at all of Mishka’s thick fur.

“You’re the devil." James shifts, sitting up into a pose almost like downward dog. “Siccing your pet on an innocent man just making an _observation._ ”

“Guilty,” Aleks says, and shrugs as he scrunches Mishka’s face up in his hands. “She’s a killing machine, look at her. Strikes fear into the hearts of men.”

“I’m terrified,” James says dryly, watching her pant happily some more. He looks at his watch and groans, rolling over onto his back. Shit.

“I gotta get going, but, uh,” he falters for a second, and then powers through. “This was nice. I know we didn’t get to talk a lot, but… you know. Still a good time.”

“Oh.” Aleks looks down at Mishka, looks over at where her leash is coiled up next to his backpack. “Well, I can… walk with you, for a bit. We should probably head out too.”

James isn’t expecting the rush in his chest from that, a mixed feeling of excitement and dread. He still has a little bit longer until his appointment, but if this is any sort of friendship that he wants to have, it can’t be happening while people are dying around James every single day. Aleks has probably had enough of that for a lifetime just in that damn subway. Still, he can’t say no, so he nods his head and gets to his feet. Aleks clasps the leash onto Mishka’s collar, and after he rolls up the blanket and stuffs it into his bag, they’re off.

“So you came here when you were eight?” James asks curiously, opening the gate. Mishka hurries on through, sniffing at the grass as Aleks passes by and James closes it after them.

“Mm.” Aleks shrugs. “You know. Uh. Foster care and all that.”

It takes a second, but then James understands.

“... _oh._ ”

“It was a long time ago,” Aleks says quickly, shrugging again. “Seriously, it’s not一it’s not any tragic backstory or whatever, you know? It just… sort of _is._ I dunno. I like it here, though, and, I mean…” He laughs. “It’s been like sixteen years or something, anyway.”

James hesitates.

“Well… we’re sort of in the same boat there.” When Aleks looks sideways at him, he makes a face. “No, not like that, I’m not making some fucked up immigration joke. Jesus. No, I一 it’s, uh… I don’t have any parents, either.” It hurts him to say it, since he’s still got a mother that’s very much alive, but for all intents and purposes it’s true. There’s a look on Aleks’s face that James can’t quite identify, so he covers it up as hurriedly as he can with the only way he knows how: a joke. “Hey, look on the bright side. No _Meet the Parents_ issues on either side.”

That gets him to laugh, and James nearly sighs in relief.

“I guess you’re right.” Aleks clicks his tongue at Mishka, who immediately returns to his side from where she’d been sniffing a sign post. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that movie, either.”

“Oh, dude, _no_.”

They bullshit some more as they walk, James outlining some of his favorite movies and Aleks interjecting with comments and arguments equally, but eventually come to a crossroads of the literal sort. The traffic is sort of loud, but as Aleks presses one button to cross and James has to go the opposite way, he finds that he… doesn’t really want to go.

“I really…” he trails off, scratches the back of his head. “Thanks for not thinking I’m an asshole? For inviting myself along? I really had a good time.”

Mishka’s pulling a bit at Aleks’s hand as he smiles at him. It’s not the crinkly-eyed smile, but it’s one that’s genuine nonetheless.

“Yeah, no, thanks for inviting yourself, actually,” he says, and James can tell he means it. “I did too.”

James hesitates for a moment, sneaks a glance at his watch. He doesn’t want to cut it short at all, would probably rather run into traffic, but he _has_ to. Still.

“Maybe we could… do it again?” he tries, wheedling a little with his shoulders hunching a bit. Aleks acts like he’s deciding, lips pursed in thought.

“Well,” he says, drawing it out, “I guess we could probably do that.” He looks sideways at James. “I’ll text you again?”

James winks at him, starting to back up so he can head off to his appointment. He manages not to run into anyone as he does so, and he checks his watch one more time before saluting.

“I’ll be waiting, Aleksandr,” he says cheerfully, taking a guess, and he knows he nails it as he watches pink flush across Aleks’s cheeks. “Later!”

“Yeah,” Aleks says, and waves at him. “Yeah, see you!”

Mishka barks, and James throws her a little kiss before he’s on his way.

For the first time in what feels like forever, James heads down the road _beaming._ He feels like a fucking moron with how much he’s smiling, with how it almost _hurts_ that the smile’s so big. But he feels normal again, feels like _James_ again. Bless his heart, he made one whole friend all by himself that’s not from college or, more likely at this point, _dead._ It feels almost like living again, feels like a normality he had almost forgotten. Even his reap, a pile-up downtown that gets a man ejected through his windshield because of a faulty seatbelt, can’t dim his spirits. He feels like he’s walking on air.

When he goes home, he looks in the mirror, really takes a good long look. His new face stares back at him, familiar now just born of the routine of it. The stranger copies his every action, but James can see the happiness in his eyes, can see his _own_ eyes there, and that lifts a weight off his chest. When he lays down that night, he falls asleep instantly, and wakes up more refreshed than he’s felt in a long time.

“Holy fuck,” Trevor says when James strides into the Waffle Haus the next morning. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” James says cheerfully, practically falls down onto the seat next to him. “Just had a good sleep, that’s all.”

“Did you get laid?” Trevor asks incredulously, and James smacks his shoulder. “Ow!”

“Stop talking about _sex,_ Trevor,” James says, picking up his bundle of silverware and brandishing it at him while Joe laughs and Brett sighs. “You _infant._ ”

And so it goes. James waits on the text, goes about his business with his reaps, goes to Joe and Trevor’s house now and again to play video games. When Aleks asks him, again, if he’d like to go to the dog park in the morning, James has to physically restrain himself from answering immediately, gives it a minute like he’s only just noticed the text. Which, what the fuck, is he a high school girl now? But Aleks answers with another smiley face, another thumbs up, and James grins down at his phone at breakfast and drowns his pancakes in syrup.

“I don’t know what finally got the stick out of your ass,” Brett tells him one morning, after James and Aleks have established their strange little routine; Joe and Trevor have already left at that point, and James is just hanging around the Waffle Haus for an hour before he heads out. Brett, though, looks sort of casually serious. “But… whatever’s got you so happy, James, I’m glad.”

It’s a weirdly personal admission from Brett, and James looks at him with a bit of confusion.

“What do you mean?”

Brett shrugs. “You seemed so miserable for a while. Which I understand,” he adds, when James opens his mouth to say _I fucking died, Brett._ “All I’m saying is, I’m glad that you’re not so… you know. Upset all the time.” For maybe the first time, Brett really _smiles_ at him, warm and fond. It makes him look younger, handsome. “It’s just nice. You know? To see you like this.”

James blinks at him, swallows.

“Oh,” he says, because he’s a little stunned. “I… thanks? I guess?”

Immediately the old Brett’s back with a roll of his eyes. “Oh, I _guess._ ”

“What am I supposed to say to that, Brett!” James snaps, but he’s smiling anyway. “You just told me I’m, like, _depressing_ to be around!”

“You _are_ depressing to be around,” Brett says dryly, and dips his spoon into his yogurt, speaks through his mouthful. “I’m depressed right now. Look at me. I’m in agony. I’m going to have to eat a whole pint of ice cream to cope, watch sad movies in the dark while it rains, lament the loss of fragile youth and innocence.”

“Ohhh, you’re a dick, you’re such a _dick_ 一”

James finds that he adjusts, and he adjusts well. It’s as Anna had told him all those months ago: he could spend all his time being miserable, or he could try to make the most of it. Before he’d been… coping, is a possible word for what he’d been doing, but he hadn’t really been _trying_. Just sort of making it day by day, neither depressed nor happy. Just sort of... there. He finds that even meeting Aleks for just an hour or so a couple times a week have brightened his spirits, made him actually feel like a person again. He likes the other reapers, he does, but Aleks is just… different.

Maybe Upper Management just let it slide.

He tries not to dwell on it. Aleks still seems happy and healthy, seems blissfully unaware of just how near-to-death his near death experience had actually been. James keeps an eye on him, but it really does seem like everything’s… fine. It’s just fine. James isn’t going to question it, not in the slightest.

They pretty much spend their time exclusively at the dog park, and then the walk to wherever it is the pair of them need to go. It’s always a different time, given James’s flaky schedule, and he covers up the fact that he always seems like he’s free by saying that for the most part, his own job doesn’t start until noon. It’s easy enough to follow through on, easy enough to say, “oh, I have off today,” or “I need to get going, I have to go in early for an office meeting.” Aleks never seems to suspect a thing.

James knows better than the living that life comes at you fast, and hard, and without mercy, but… things seem like they might actually work out this time around, until Aleks hits him with a curveball.

“So, I was thinking.”

They’re walking back from the park, as usual, and James looks over at him, raises an eyebrow when Aleks doesn’t continue.

“Okay?” he says slowly, tilts his head. “Go on then. What you thinkin’ about?”

Aleks hesitates, bites his lip. He won’t quite look at him, and James wonders for a moment, with a faint sort of horror, if Aleks is going to call off their mornings at the dog park. He can’t think of any reason _why_ Aleks would want to do that, but he’s automatically jumping to the worst conclusion. Just when things were starting to pick up again.

“It’s…” Again he trails off, and James gives him a gentle nudge with his elbow despite the growing dread.

“I’m getting older over here,” he says, a patented lie, and Aleks huffs at him.

“I was just thinking, like, maybe we could… go somewhere other than the dog park?” He says it almost in a rush, like he’s trying to get them out fast enough before he changes his mind. “Like maybe we could go to dinner or something.”

The relief floods through him like a shot of alcohol, warm and thick and making him choke a little bit with it. Holy fuck, Aleks just wants to go out for _dinner._ He doesn’t want to cancel anything at all. It’s so palpable that he starts giggling under his breath, running the tips of his fingers through his hair until they stop at the tie.

”Ohhh, like a date?” he cracks, thinking back on when they’d first met.

But Aleks is quiet for a long moment, fiddling with Mishka’s leash, and then he says softly, “yeah. Like a date.”

There’s a long pause, and James stops walking.

It’s one that he draws on for too long, brings about a tenseness between the two of them. He doesn’t mean to scare Aleks with any sort of deliberation, he really doesn’t, but that… hadn’t occurred to him. Oh. An actual date. Like, a dress up a little bit and go out to dinner and walk home together _date,_ probably. They’ve spent a lot of time together in last two weeks or so, even if it’s only been for less than an hour each time, but it hadn’t occurred to him that maybe they could do more. He blinks, sort of stunned, and then cracks into a huge grin despite himself.

“Oh my god, you’re _so red in the fuckin’ face_!”

“Stop.” Aleks glares at him, but it’s true; he’s flushed beet red. “Stop, dude.”

“Seriously, you look like a tomato!”

“Look, fuck, I’m sorry,” Aleks says in a rush, looking angry. “I just thought一I mean, if you don’t, you know, swing that way一”

“No,” James says, and he can’t stop laughing. “No, nonono, that’s not it, I just一I’m sorry, sorry, this is fucked up. I shouldn’t be laughing. Lemme一God, okay, let me pull myself together.”

He gets an unhappy frown for that, and it’s real enough that James works to stop his laughter, really wants to dedicate himself to the conversation without hurting any feelings. Aleks deserves that much from him at least, given that he went and took a huge risk that James himself probably wouldn’t have gone for. Granted, James has more reason than most to not immediately ask someone out, but still. Aleks put himself out there, and James should give him just as much honesty in return.

It’s a bad idea. James is so aware by now of what’s a bad idea and what isn’t, but Aleks is looking at him expectantly, and rather than any sort of fear or uncertainty, James feels… only a strange happiness in his chest that’s thick and bold, swells up despite himself. Misha’s barking at their feet, and that brings him back to reality, has him find his voice again to answer.

“Yeah,” James says, and thinks that now, maybe, he’ll finally need to have that talk with Asher. “Yeah, you know what? Yes. Let’s go on a date.”

Aleks stares at him for a second, like he’s not sure if James is really telling him the truth or fucking with him. But James can see his eyes flicking back and forth, sees the dawning realization on his expression as he realizes that James is being 100% serious. It’s then that he breaks out into a smile. It’s so bright, James feels like he might go blind with it.

“Okay,” Aleks says, almost like he’s not sure, but he gains confidence as he talks. He holds out his hand, and James takes it, shakes it a couple of times like they’ve secured some sort of deal. “Okay. Alright. We’ll go on a date.”

“We’ll go on a date,” James repeats, nodding sagely and watching as Aleks’s smile gets even wider.

God. He is _so_ fucked.


	6. i've got two left feet and no good moves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont know how many chapters this thing is going to have anymore. IT KEEPS GETTING AWAY FROM ME. i think we're settled in at fourteen now but i honestly DON'T KNOW. I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY ALL OF IT NO MATTER HOW MUCH OF IT THERE IS. 
> 
> thank you so so much for the comments and kudos, i love them all!!! ♥
> 
> come say hi on [tumblr!](http://myriadus.tumblr.com)

The main thing about going on a secret date that none of your friends know about, as it turns out, is that James has absolutely no opinions to fall back on when it comes to his appearance. It’s hard enough to figure out whether or not he looks good when he can’t even see his own damn face, so he compromises by taping up some paper over his head and just focusing on his body. His living body is close enough to his own that he can get away with it, even if his tattoos are noticeably absent in the reflection.

The problem is, he has almost nothing in the department of _nice clothes._ He really never figured he’d need any. He’s got pretty much exclusively T-shirts and jeans, a few hoodies, his trusty leather jacket, because what more does he need? The only moderately decent shirt he has is his old work polo; he holds it up and purses his lips as he stares at it. Save for the logo sewn on the front, maybe it could’ve worked. With a groan he tosses it towards the laundry, where it lands on the rim and hangs there. Fuck.

It’s bizarre, how high-strung he’s being about this. It’s a fucking date. He’s gone on dates before. Been on dates with men _and_ women, but for some reason this is the one that’s tripping him up in a way he hasn’t been since high school. He still has the rest of the day to figure his situation out, and in that time he could probably snatch up a button-down or just go to the thrift store and buy one.

The bed squeaks as he sits down hard on the edge and buries his face in his hands, groaning. _It’s just a fucking date,_ he chastises himself. _Pull yourself together, you idiot._

He can’t get Aleks’s bright smile out of his head. James has never been one for the word _smitten_ but he’s thinking that’s probably what he is right now. He’s goddamned smitten. Smitten over a weird Russian kid with tattoos and a fluffy dog and a crinkly-eyed smile that makes James’s dead heart flutter a bit in his chest. How in the hell did he fall so hard so fast? Is he that _desperate?_

Well, unfortunately, the answer to that question is a resounding yes, isn’t it?

James scrubs at his face, runs his fingers through his facial hair for a moment as he gazes around his apartment. It’s a bit late in the afternoon; he’s already had his reap, already had breakfast, and hell, he even went and tidied up after himself. Anything to try and pass the time best he can until their… their date. Shit.

The sunlight’s hitting the plants and—wait. Hold up. He gets up again, carefully takes down one of them from their shelf and frowns. The leaves are starting to curl in a bit, withered and frail and brown at the edges. He turns it over in his hands, huffs a bit of a laugh. He didn’t know a lot about gardening before, but he knows enough; he’s supposed to prune them, a task he’d been neglecting simply out of forgetfulness. The plant lives better without the dead parts attached to it. He carries the little plant towards the sink, fishes the scissors out of the drawer.

“Alright, little guy,” he says, and starts to snip at the dead leaves. “At least one of us can stay alive.”

That takes up a little bit of his time, when he examines the other plants and does the same thing, gets rid of all the leaves and stems that look a little too withered to survive. Death continues to change him in weird, unexpected ways. Now he’s a fucking gardener, and he laughs at that as he sweeps all the dead leaves into the trash. What’s next? Knitting? Baking? Well, actually, maybe baking wouldn’t be so bad. At least he could get some fucking cookies out of it or something.

Food reminds him of the Waffle Haus, and that gives him an idea. He checks his watch quickly, huffs as he pulls out his phone.

_Whens your reap today? I need a favor_

It takes a couple of minutes, but finally Asher responds.

_Like ten minutes. Dude just come to the haus :P_

He likes Asher; he’s got good humor, and he’s handsome, and he’s got a natural charm that comes off him in waves, the sort of charm that’s almost enviable. He’s a bit odd at times, but James has gotten more than used to odd at this point in his death. And perhaps most importantly, he’s probably got at least one nice shirt that James could borrow. Joe’s too short, Jakob and Trevor too tall, and fuck if he’s going to ask _Brett,_ but Asher’s good and reliable.

_Youre REALLY gonna make me come back_

He’s already shrugging his jacket back on when his phone buzzes again, and all Asher’s sent him is a winky face. James chuckles a little incredulously under his breath, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

The sun’s shining as usual when he leaves his apartment building, and he squints up at the sky as he shoves his sunglasses on. He and Aleks had settled on 7 o’clock, at a restaurant that James has never been to but Aleks says is fairly good. The thought of Aleks makes his heart jump a little again, his stomach turning tightly, and he swallows hard as he makes his way down the street.

He doesn’t often go to the Waffle Haus during the afternoon. It’s not that he dislikes the afternoon shift; quite the opposite, actually. They’re rowdy and cheerful and just as weird, and sometimes James envies them as much as he likes them. They don’t have to get up at the asscrack of dawn to do their jobs, but James supposes they make up for that by having the murders of the bunch, since they take care of the nighttime. It’s probably a compromise.

Still, he can’t help but break out into a grin when he opens the door and they all immediately wave him over. It feels almost like a betrayal to _his_ crew, but they’re one big team at the end of the day, or so he’ll convince himself. Plus, the less his side knows, the better.

“Look at you,” Lindsey says, sounding impressed as she puts her mug of coffee down. “You look, like… actually happy for once. Good for you.”

“You know, no matter how many times I hear it, I’m still so sick of being told that,” James replies dryly, leans on the wall side of the booth, looking over their table. Asher isn’t there yet, but he’s probably on his way, and he can make small talk enough with the afternoon shift until he gets there. He reaches over and snatches a potato cube off Jakob’s plate, dancing out of the way before it can be slapped out of his hand.

“Touch the potatoes again and I’ll fork you,” Jakob threatens, pointing at him with the said fork. James just grins as he shoves his prize into his mouth, beaming around it. “Don’t make that face. I’m serious.”

“Potatoes are serious business,” Anna says mildly, but she’s laughing.

Jakob turns the fork on her instead, says, “You don’t touch a man’s food, that’s like… etiquette rule number one. It’s just common decency.”

“Do we follow rules, though?” James replies, and grabs another piece of potato quick as a flash before Jakob can properly shove the fork through the top of his hand. “You’re fuckin’ psycho, get that away from me!”

“Behave yourselves,” Lindsey says before Jakob can respond, blowing on her mug. The steam billows around her face like vapor. “Or no dessert for either of you.”

“That’s Brett’s jurisdiction,” James says smugly, leaning down on his crossed arms again.

Lindsey just raises an eyebrow at him.

“And you _really_ think I won’t tell him?”

James looks at her, appalled.

“You’re a tattler, is what you are. You’re gonna tattle on me?!”

“I’m _honest,_ ” she corrects, takes a sip. “I’m going to _honestly_ tattle on you.”

James is spared coming up with a reply by Asher shouldering the door open for a pair of old ladies on their way out, and he perks a bit. Asher nods his head politely at the both of them as they titter their thanks, waves a goodbye before he’s hurrying over to their booth, tossing his bag under the table and sliding in beside Jakob. He looks a bit flushed, like he ran part of the way.

“Hey, James,” he greets cheerfully, immediately reaching over to pop one of Jakob’s potatoes into his mouth; Jakob throws the fork down onto the table in defeat. “Long time no see. How goes it?”

“It goes,” James answers, but he’s grinning. “Wanna go get lunch? On me.”

Asher blinks a bit at him before looking down at the table, then back up. James just shrugs, wrinkles his nose a bit as he looks around. Part of it is genuinely that he’s just sick and tired of Waffle Haus food, especially when it’s not breakfast, but the rest of it… he’d rather have this conversation with Asher in private.

“I guess?” Asher says, sounding a bit confused. “Not here, though?”

“Nah. Besides, I still need to ask that favor, remember.”

 _That_ catches Anna's attention, who turns a little too sharply at the suggestion. Asher, by contrast, just perks up a little bit as he slides back out of the booth, reaches under the table to grab at his bag again. James waves Anna away, her concern and her suspicions all in one, but she still looks a bit ruffled. Lindsey’s just rolling her eyes.

“Stand down,” she says quietly, amused, just as Asher pops back up.

“I guess I’ll be back in a bit,” he tells them, and before anyone can stop him he sticks his foot over onto the empty booth next to them, walks across the cushion and then crawls over the barrier. He lands neatly next to James on the other side, who’s struggling not to laugh. “Later!”

“I promise I’ll bring him back in one piece,” James calls over his shoulder. Asher waves at them, walking backwards for a moment before he opens the door for James, too. They’re both left squinting into the sun, and Asher hitches his back a little more securely onto his one shoulder.

“So what’s the favor?” he asks, one eye closed against the sun. James claps him solidly on his free shoulder, trying to look as solemn as possible. He’s already come up with the lie, already come up with the full story, and now he just needs to sell it.

“Asher,” he says slowly, seriously, “I need your help. I’m trying to get laid tonight.”

Asher stares at him wide-eyed for a very long moment, and then bursts out into laughter.

“You’re a cruel man, you know that?” James tells him sourly, but Asher just shakes his head, holding his stomach as he laughs. It’s less mocking laughter and more just out of sheer _shock,_ and Asher confirms it as he tapers off into a couple giggles, giving James’s arm a light little punch.

“I just thought—” He snorts again. “I just, you worded that _so_ —”

“I know what I said!” James crosses his arms, tries to look appropriately chuffed. Even so, he’s still grinning. “Dude, I just need to borrow a _shirt._ ”

Asher’s still snickering, but he wipes a tear out of his eye and shakes his head.

“Yeah, no, I can do that. We can pick up something to eat and go back to my place.”

“Yeah. How goddamn kind of you. Prick.”

They start walking again, dip into a local fast-food place nestled between the clothing stores on the main street. Asher stuffs two water bottles into his bag, James keeps a hold of their food, and then they’re off. It’s not a long walk at all, maybe five minutes tops, and they walk side by side, dodging the sidewalk traffic.

“You know,” Asher says, “I definitely don’t know who you’re trying to have sex with, to be fair, but like… other reapers...”

He trails off pointedly.

James pulls a face. “Dude, listen, you’re good-looking and all, but like… Anna would kick my motherfuckin’ ass.”

Asher laughs again, shaking his head.

“Oh, no, yeah, no, that’s not what I thought was gonna happen anyway.” There’s a bit of a mischievous grin on his face as he looks over at James. “You could probably convince Brett, though.”

James nearly stops walking.

“Sleeping wi— _ewwwww!_ ”

Asher laughs some more as they round a corner and walk up a stoop not unlike Joe and Trevor’s. “I’m joking. But there’s also, you know, Suicide, or Natural Causes. Those guys.”

“I’m just going to a bar, Asher,” James tries to say as dryly as possible. “I’m just trying to pick someone up and have a good time, not have, like, an awkward professional relationship for the rest of eternity. Fuck.”

And anyway, like hell he’s ever going to sleep with _anyone_ from either of those groups; not even death would lower his standards that much. He’s met a few of them, and they’re all absolute lunatics. No, thank you. James is just fine with his own band of lunatics to hang out with and then… well, whatever Aleks is. He’s probably a little unhinged, too, if he wants to go on a date with James.

At least Aleks has the excuse of not _knowing_ he’s going on a date with a dead guy.

“Well, in that case, we’ll get you something classy,” Asher says with a wiggle of his eyebrows as he unlocks his door. “What size are you?”

It’s a weird thing, for something like trying on clothes to be so normal. Soon enough James finds himself in front of the fullsize mirror hanging from Asher’s bathroom door, buttoning up a black collared shirt. He can see Asher’s fake reflection behind him and for a second he jumps; it’s still, on occasion, something he has to get used to. Still, as he rolls up the sleeves to his elbows, he’ll admit that it doesn’t look half bad. Asher studies him thoughtfully for a moment from where he’s sitting on the bathroom counter, chewing on his hamburger.

“Maybe let your hair down,” he says finally. “Keep it casual, you know?”

James obeys quietly, tugs his hair out and lets it tumble down to frame his face. It hasn’t grown an inch since he died, which is a damn shame, but it still settles just past his shoulders. He knows it must be a damn mess to Asher’s eyes, but in the reflection it only waves softly from where the tie had kept it tight to his head. He stares at himself, really stares, tries to take in this visual as the one that Aleks is going to see.

“Mmm,” Asher hums through his mouthful, sounding pleased with himself. “Yep. Much better.”

“Think I’m gonna snag someone?” James says, keeps up the lie as he twists to get another look at himself. He’s still got some fucking love handles that pooch out past the waist of his jeans, but Asher’s shirt is just loose enough that they don’t look so bad. “Can I get drunk or something and go from there, maybe?”

“Believe in yourself, bro, and anything is possible,” Asher says sagely, swinging his legs where they’re crossed at the ankles. “And make sure it’s a one-night stand. That’s a mess you want nothing to do with, believe me.”

James gives him a bit of a side-eye. “Speaking from experience?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer to that. Asher, to his credit, just shrugs a little bit, takes another bite of his burger. He doesn’t seem very put out; rather, sort of accepting more than anything else.

“Yeah,” he says after a second. “You know how it is. You want your old life back at first, and that includes all the people you left behind.” He takes another bite, speaks past the food. “Pretty much everyone that got drafted had a girl, you know. Or a guy,” he adds, sort of thoughtfully.

James squints at him, and then widens his eyes.

“...I thought that was against the rules.”

Asher grins wryly.

“Oh, it is.” He shrugs again and stuffs the rest of the burger in his mouth. After that he balls up the foil and tosses it in the trash, mimicking a basketball. “I mean, you learn your lesson when you fuck up big time like that, and I sure as hell fucked up, but seriously. When they’re getting older and you’re not? When they don’t even _know_ it’s you?” He shakes his head, and there’s a distant look in his eyes. “It’s just… _bad._ It’s just bad. Don’t get into that.”

James thinks of Aleks suddenly, and thinks of their date, thinks of how heavy his phone feels in his pocket. Before he can so much as think of a fake response, though, Asher slides off the counter and walks up to him, scrunches his face up as he looks James up and down. Asher’s hands come up and he undoes another button, fluffs James’s hair out a bit, straightens the collar.

“You’re _so_ getting laid tonight,” he says, with an air of finality and pride, and James laughs.

He’s not a first-date-third-base kind of guy, but as he thanks Asher while he’s leaving (“no, seriously, just give it back whenever, I don’t really wear that shirt anymore anyway”) he thinks that it’s not a bad look. It would probably work, if he didn’t already have plans of a different sort. He takes a glance at his watch, and then huffs impatiently as he trots down the steps. He’s still got a bit of time, and nothing to do until then. Of course, Asher wouldn’t know that; all he knows is that James is just trying to take someone home.

That almost gets him to laugh as he shoves his hands in his pockets and heads back towards his place. He’s not taking _anyone_ home tonight, but not for a lack of desire or anything. James has definitely figured out that his dick still works, courtesy of his shower, some nice visuals, and absolutely no help from Brett. He had only offered up a bored, “I don’t know, go fuck someone and find out” when James had questioned whether or not he could even _get_ a fuckin’ hard-on anymore. Asshole.

But, well, hell, maybe James wants to actually just go on a damn date. He wouldn’t say _no_ to a friendly romp, necessarily, but he’s got feelings or whatever. He wants this to go _right_. Sex can make things messy, in both the physical and emotional way, and James would really like to actually spend time with Aleks.

That leads to him sitting on his couch for another hour, bored out of his mind from watching the same shit on Netflix again. Every ten minutes he’s glancing at his watch, huffing, impatient. This really _is_ like fuckin’ high school all over again, waiting until he can leave to go pick up his prom date that, in retrospect, was one of the most pointless nights of his life anyway.

He has half a mind to just text Aleks beforehand, but. Well, fuck. James guesses that the best word to put to how he’s feeling is _nervous._ He’s goddamned nervous. Staring at his phone, he sighs deeply, drapes his head over the back of the couch and stares up at the ceiling with his arms stretched out on either side. It’s still eating at him, what a bad decision this is overall. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that. He knows that he should come clean to someone, should explain the situation, should probably call this whole thing off with Aleks before it’s too late.

But the rest of him thinks of crushing loneliness, and never ending boredom, and he thinks of Aleks’s smile.

He groans. Fuck.

All of a sudden, it goes from the day taking forever to suddenly speeding up, a VHS tape on fast forward. He glances at his watch and then he’s smoothing out Asher’s shirt, double-checking himself in the mirror, considers cologne like a fucking tool. He doesn’t even _have_ any, a fact he realizes belatedly, and settles for fresh deodorant and staring at his weird not-face again in his reflection.

“Okay, asshole,” he says to it. “Don’t fuck this up.”

He doesn’t get an answer, not that he’d expected one.

It’s starting to get dark when he leaves his apartment again, with milky pink and purple and orange stretched out in long strips of color against the sky. There are plenty of people on the streets, and he weaves in and out with a muttered “sorry” now and again as he hurries towards the restaurant that Aleks had texted him. His heart feels like it’s thumping a little too hard in his chest.

 _Jesus fuckin’ Christ, get a hold of yourself, idiot,_ he thinks as he fixes the cuffs of his shirt again, waits on the corner for the lights to turn. That’s the end of it, then. He’s literally a teenage girl now, giggling to all his friends about his crush while he waits on a call and paints his nails pink or something.

It’s just as the streetlights go on that he reaches his destination, a restaurant that’s not terribly fancy or anything, but it’s definitely no Waffle Haus. James sighs, half in relief, half to work himself up to walking across the street to get there. He hasn’t felt nerves like this in a long time, and that ought to tell him something, but as with most things he just stuffs it down under the rest of his problems and ignores it. He jogs past the traffic when it stops for a red light, and finds Aleks waiting a little just past the entrance.

He hasn’t actually seen Aleks since they agreed on the date, and somehow that doesn’t prepare him for seeing him ready for a _date,_ instead of dressed to chase his dog around the park. He turns when James slows to a stop in front of him, and James just… stops a bit, right in his tracks.

“Hey,” Aleks says, lips twisting into a little half-smile.

James blinks at him a bit, because he… he looks _good._ White shirt that dips low and shows off his collarbones, makes his eyes and hair look darker, shows off the swirls of color on his arms where the sleeves stop just below his elbows. He’s got black pants, black shoes. He’s not wearing a hat, or a hoodie, not carting around a backpack or holding on to Mishka’s leash, and somehow seeing the way he glows under a streetlamp makes James’s heart jump up into his throat.

Fuck, he’s _beautiful._

“Uh. Hi,” James replies, a little breathlessly. Aleks’s grin grows.

“You’re looking awfully fancy,” he says, and James looks down at himself, but Aleks continues when he raises his gaze again. “I mean, no, it’s not… you, uh, you look good.”

“Oh.” James clears his throat, at a loss. “Uh. Yeah. Thanks. So do you.”

Aleks laughs once, scratching at the back of his head as he looks anywhere but at James. His cheeks have gone a bit dark. James searches frantically for something to say and finds a joke before anything clever or attractive.

“This ain’t some $40 steak place, is it,” he says, pointing, “because I’m underdressed and _way_ underpaid for a $40 steak place.” He’s not paid at all, of course, but that’s hardly the point. Thankfully Aleks laughs, nods his head towards the door; there’s a patio outside that’s surrounded by a old-fashioned wooden fence, the tables lit with candles and a roaring fire tucked in the corner. It looks a bit swanky.

“Nah, it’s only like... $20 steak. Downgrade, dude.”

That gets James to laugh, and Aleks looks pleased as they’re led after a hostess, as she sets them down at a table just on the inside of the patio. James keeps clenching and unclenching his hands out of nerves, can’t stop thinking about what Asher had told him earlier. All of that sort of vanishes though, when he looks up and finds that Aleks is regarding him a bit curiously.

“What,” he says, self-conscious, and Aleks shakes his head, seems to snap himself out of it.

“What? No.” He suddenly looks a bit flustered. “No, I’ve, uh, I just don’t think... “ He trails off, looking a bit embarrassed. James has one wild moment where he’s sure that Aleks knows everything, knows the truth of it, and won’t that be a fucking trip— but Aleks just taps his wrapped silverware against the tabletop and doesn’t say anything.

“ _What_ ,” James repeats, tensing up, and the silverware speeds up for a second, then stops.

“I don’t think you’ve ever...” Aleks gestures, a bit unsure, “I don’t think you’ve ever had your hair down. That’s all.”

Well. It’s not what he’d been expecting, but it’s definitely better. James pokes at a strand of hair, feels curls and knows it’s straight to Aleks. It’s bizarre to think about, how everything he sees when he looks down is completely different from the person sitting across from Aleks. He shrugs a little, fiddles with the lock of hair before dropping his hand again. He feels self-conscious about it all of a sudden.

“Yeah, uh, I guess it’s just… at a weird length right now,” he says a bit lamely. “I’ve been growing it out for like… oh shit, two years? I can put it up, though.”

“No, it looks nice,” Aleks says quickly, a little _too_ quickly, and James can tell that he noticed that too, because he backtracks. “Just, uh. It looks good, that’s all.”

“Oh.”

They settle into silence again. They’re off to a bad start, not because of any lack of chemistry, or friendliness, but… it hits James, just then. They’re both nervous, because suddenly the context of the relationship has changed. They’re not two friends chilling at the park, they’re two friends on a _date._ It’s not just James that’s nervous, no matter how calm Aleks tries to be otherwise, and he can tell in the way that Aleks taps his foot, scratches at his dark hair, fiddles with the menu a bit. It’s a different setting than what either of them are used to in each other’s presence, and James resists the urge to order a beer. Instead he settles on a Diet Coke like usual and sips at that quickly when their waiter walks away again.

“Okay,” he finally says after a minute or two of silence, and sets his glass down with a thump; Aleks glances over at him, looks a bit startled. “Here’s the thing, though. This?” He motions between the two of them with a pointer finger. “This is sort of not working, and I think I know why.”

James can word things kind of badly sometimes, and he knows that, but it still takes him a second to realize that Aleks looks crestfallen before settling into something carefully neutral. James immediately leans forward, remedies the situation by gesturing at Aleks to come closer. After a second, Aleks leans forward too.

“Let’s just pretend we’re at the dog park, yeah?” James says, like he’s telling a secret. “Then maybe we’ll both stop acting like fuckin’ pricks because we’re both so goddamn _awkward_.”

The relief is palpable, and Aleks blinks at him, laughs softly.

“Fuck you, I’m not awkward.”

“You’re _so_ awkward, look at you. Sitting there like a dumbass,” James retaliates, grinning as he sits back. “What sort of date is this?”

“A _good_ one, if you’d shut the fuck up.”

He’s only known Aleks for about two weeks, but the grin on his face, the quick way he speaks, it all tells him that none of the words are sincere. It loosens up the weird, nervous knot in his chest that’s been sitting there all day. It’s still odd, a good kind of odd, that Aleks is wearing a nice shirt instead of a hoodie and some khakis. That he looks like he put something in his hair, and shaved his face a bit, and he smells _really_ nice and—James realizes, all at once, that _smitten_ is way too calm a word for whatever’s going on in his head and his chest right now.

Well, in his jeans too, probably, but that’s a different story entirely. It’s the damn collarbones. He may hate Jane Austen, but she’s right about those. Fucking scandalous.

“Rule number one, Aleksandr: I’m _never_ going to shut the fuck up.” He points a finger while holding up his drink. “If you can’t accept that, we’re never going to get to the end of this date. I’m just telling you right now.”

“You think I don’t know that by now?” Aleks leans back in his chair, tilts his head a bit so he’s looking down his nose at James. There’s a grin on his lips and a soft look in his eyes that makes James feel funny. “I figured that out pretty fuckin’ quick, actually. Like, holy shit. You run your mouth like you’re gonna get paid.”

“ _Hey._ I am a _delight._ ”

Aleks laughs again, crosses his arms. He doesn’t say anything to that, but his laughter is pitched high, and he sounds like he’s happy, and that at least wrestles back some of the nerves that still have James’s fingers numb. He stretches his hands out again, zeroes in on the colors decorating both of Aleks’s arms.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen those properly, either,” he says, leaning forward. Aleks blinks a couple of times, but then he must understand because he holds out his arms, lets them rest against the table. James has seen them briefly, of course, a flash of neon whenever Aleks pushed up his sleeves or rare days where it was hot enough in the morning to wear just a t-shirt, but he’s never taken an actual close look at them.

“They’re mostly done,” Aleks says, and James almost traces the patterns on his right arm with a finger before he stops himself. Instead he crosses his arms on the table and leans forward, regards them curiously. “I’ve got the rest of my elbow and then my shoulder and that’s pretty much it.”

James thinks of his own tattoos, half-lined and never to be finished. He’s got the splotches of red and yellow and neon green that fills in some of the black lines, but as he looks at Aleks’s tattoos, he feels just a small, ineffective little spike of jealousy.

“They’re so damn gorgeous.” James looks at the other one, takes in the sea life winding up the length of Aleks’s left arm. It’s intricate, must’ve spent a lot of time and money to get done. “Wish I could’ve gotten mine finished.”

“Do you have any?” Aleks asks, interested, and James notices that he doesn’t move his arms away. He seems to be basking a little bit in James’s attention, something that James can personally understand. But James just sighs, leans back a little bit as he finally, just barely ghosts his fingers over Aleks’s wrist where the color stops. He has to lie again.

“No. Always wanted sleeves like yours, but I just never finished them.” He hurries to correct his mistake. “The plans, I mean.”

“Well, if you ever wanted to, I usually go to the same guy,” Aleks says, and still doesn’t move his arms away. It seems almost like an invitation, and James can feel in his own chest how badly he just wants to touch, wants to run the tips of his fingers over all that color and feel Aleks’s pulse just underneath his thin skin. Remind James that he’s still alive, somehow, wants to let his fingers rest on the gentle rhythm that beats there. He’s gotten compliments on his hands before, but when he sees Aleks’s eyes flick down just briefly to look at them, for the first time he feels flattered by it.

Aleks takes a breath, just a short inhale, and pulls his hands away again. James mourns the loss.

“Yeah, maybe,” he says, and puts his hands down too. “If I ever have the money for it. Tattoos are expensive, dude.”

Aleks laughs lightly.

“Yeah, no kidding. I’ve been working on these for years.”

“Have any other ones?” James asks, leans on his hand. They can make do with this, with small talk, while James quells the thundering heartbeat in his chest. Why is _this_ what it took, dark orange flickering across Aleks’s cheekbones, the curve of his shirt showing another tattoo just barely poking out on his chest, the way that he fucking smiles over the table at James? Why is _this_ the damn breaking point? He’s spent plenty of time with Aleks before but now, seeing him soft and shy and unsure but still so full of life and vibrancy, still looks like he’s having fun even though the both of them are suddenly, inexplicably at a loss for what to say.

James really, really should’ve stopped this while he had the chance to. Dates fuck everything up.

“A few. One on my chest, some on my legs.” Aleks runs a hand through his hair. “But like, I really wanted to get my arms done. I have a lot more to go, I dunno. Gonna take a long time.”

 _You’re welcome,_ James thinks, against his better judgement.

“Well,” is what he says instead, as their food is brought out for them, “it’d be cool to see them one day.”

Aleks raises his eyebrows at him, a mischievous little glance with his head down, and as James stares at him, his smile grows a little bit. It clicks, all of a sudden.

“The _finished product,_ you fuckin’ pervert!”

And there it is: the strange little laugh that had caught James’s attention the first time they met. Just a little puff of laughter, like an afterthought, like he’s so happy he’s got to let some of it out. It’s endearing. It’s such a small little thing but it’s so very uniquely _Aleks,_ and it makes James _feel things._ Goddamnit.

Red in the face, James mumbles angrily, picks up his fork and stabs into some of his fries.

“You’re such a perv,” he complains, even though his cheeks are going hot. “Can’t go five seconds without you making some kind of damn sex joke.”

“You’re the one who wants to _see my tattoos_!” Aleks replies, defending himself even as he’s laughing some more. “You really think that didn’t sound like a, like a euphemism?”

“You’re a euphemism,” James shoots back, punctuates the lame comeback by shoving a bunch of fries into his mouth.

“Baby, you know it,” Aleks crows around a mouthful of his own food, wiggling his eyebrows and jerking his head a few times. It’s all such an absurd look that it almost negates the endearment. Almost. James chokes on his food anyway.

“You’re so gross,” he complains, talking with his mouth full. “I’m trying to _eat._ Don’t you dare,” he adds, when Aleks lifts his eyebrows again at the word _eat._ “Don’t you _fucking dare,_ Aleksandr. Have some goddamn self-respect. Don’t go for the lowest hanging fruit. You piece of shit.”

Aleks giggles around his food at _low-hanging,_ and James tosses his balled-up straw wrapper at him.

“You’re sick. You’re _sick._ I cannot believe you.”

“You make it too easy,” Aleks says, once he’s swallowed some water. “You set yourself up for it, dude.”

“This date is as good as over,” James says sternly, but not very sincerely, pointing at him with his fork. Aleks snorts, takes another long sip of water before he goes back to his meal. He doesn’t look very put out by that comment.

“You can’t resist me,” he says, and pops some fries in his mouth, too. “You’re not gonna call off the date before I’ve, like, given you a romantic kiss on the cheek or whatever.” He wiggles his eyebrows, though his own cheeks have gone a bit pink. “You still gotta walk me home and everything.”

“And it’s gonna be the best damn walk home of your _life,_ ” James says immediately, trying to ignore the way his stomach swooped at the mention of a kiss. “I’m gonna make you fuckin’ swoon, you rat bastard. You’re gonna be so, so fuckin’ captivated. Just you wait.”

Aleks leans on his hand, smirking. “Mmm, woo me, Daddy.”

James nearly inhales his fucking fork.

“ _Aleksandr!_ ”

The idea of a transition from _friends_ to _dates_ is odd, but odder still is the way the two of them just slide into it. James had sort of thought that it would be a little bit awkward, would be weird like other dates he’s gone on in the past. That by now they’d surely have run out of things to talk about, or that the idea of being more than friends might be too tiresome, or scary, or whatever you want to call it. James doesn’t typically have reservations about things, he likes to act first and think later, but this had been one of those times where his nerves one-upped his instincts and made him scramble to catch up.

Looking at Aleks now, though, lit up orange in the flicker of a fire, the way his dark eyes light up with mischief and humor… Jesus. James isn’t actually sure he could go _back._ He doesn’t know if he could stay friends, and at this point he can only hope that Aleks maybe feels the same way about him.

On a whim, he orders dessert while Aleks is in the bathroom. It’s probably a dumb move, but he remembers Aleks mentioning offhand that he likes sweet things, and so he gives it a shot. Their waiter brings it over and James waits, taps his foot. When Aleks gets back, he picks the plate up, sets it down with a large thunk in front of Aleks, who’s wide-eyed.

“Here,” James says, clears his throat. Aleks looks down at it; it’s a brownie, warm and gooey, and a scoop of ice cream on top that’s started to run in white rivets down the side. Aleks looks back up at him, looks kind of stunned. “Uh, that’s for you. I’m buying, so. Yeah. Enjoy.”

Aleks still has his head tilted down, is still looking up at James from under his eyelashes, and James watches as his lips curl up into a tiny, genuine smile. For one beautiful, striking moment, James looks at this weird, weird boy, pale in the moonlight, eyes sparkling, happiness coming off him in waves, and thinks that he could very easily fall in love with him.

Of course, Aleks ruins the moment by asking slyly, “you’re not gonna feed it to me?”

“...god, I’m gonna beat your fuckin’ ass.”

He gets another laugh for that, leans on his hand as he watches Aleks dig the spoon into the brownie and scoop up an enormous mouthful. James can feel the edges of his mouth quirking up, but that quickly turns into a bit of shock and confusion when the next spoonful is held up to him from across the table. Aleks looks at him pointedly.

“...what is this, are you into feeding people or something, is this getting you off? Is this why you asked if I was gonna feed _you?_ ” James asks after a second, and Aleks rolls his eyes.

“I can’t finish this whole fuckin’ thing, dude. Eat the brownie.”

“With your spoon? Ew.” James doesn’t really mean it, and before Aleks can pull the spoon away again he’s leaning forward, clamps his teeth around it. Aleks yanks a little, not very hard, and sighs loudly as James slurps the ice cream off the spoon and then leans back, very proud of himself.

“You’re gross.”

“That brownie’s fuckin’ delicious,” James says, beaming, knowing he has chocolate on his teeth. “I have such good taste.”

Aleks answers by scooping up more brownie, sticking the spoon in his mouth and wrinkling his nose at James a little bit in something like a grin. He scrunches his whole face up in response, sticks out his tongue childishly until Aleks is laughing again and giving him another mouthful of brownie. It’s warm on his tongue, rich and really fucking good, and James is pretty pleased overall with how the date’s gone so far.

He pays, as he said he would, cites when Aleks paid for their lunch the first time they met as he holds the check out of Aleks’s reach.

“That was to _thank you,_ dick!” Aleks protests, but James just digs out a bunch of twenties from his wallet and holds it high over his head until their waiter comes around and can take it out of his hand. Aleks glowers at him without any real bite to it.

“I thought you meant you were buying the fuckin’ _brownie,_ ” he says as they start to get up, and James beams at him.

“Nope. Told you I was going to make you swoon. You can keep the change,” he adds when their waiter starts to pull out some dollar bills from his pocket. He looks relieved to not have to count any of it out, because he salutes at James, tells them both to have a good night. Just then the poor guy trips, perhaps in his haste to get to his other tables, but Aleks manages to grab him before he hits the ground.

“Jesus,” the waiter mumbles, pulls back and grins sheepishly at Aleks. “Thanks, man.”

Aleks waves the gratitude off with a pat on the guy’s shoulder, just says, “don’t worry about it.”

He tells them to have a good night again and then he’s gone, lost in the scuffle of another late night rush as the both of them watch. James takes another huge drink, finishes it off, wipes the condensation from the glass onto his pants. Aleks watches him, laughing softly.

“Yeah, I’m really swooning. What are you doing?”

James, who has held his arm out, slightly crooked, grins like the cat who got the cream. When Aleks just looks at him, and at his arm, he wiggles it a bit.

“C’mon.”

“...come on what.”

“C’mon!” When Aleks still doesn’t comprehend, James sighs loudly and rolls his eyes as he reaches out. He hooks their arms together, almost yanks Aleks up against him so that he yelps a little bit and then says, “what the fuck, dude?”

“I still gotta walk you home,” James says, beaming at him. “Remember?”

Immediately Aleks’s cheeks flare up a bright red, and he pulls at his arm a little bit. He looks thoroughly ruffled, and very embarrassed, and James is _very_ pleased with that. Aleks pulls again.

“Not fuckin’, not, not _arm-in-arm_!”

“Why not?” James says, pretending to be shocked as he starts to pull Aleks along, and Aleks follows, grumbling but no longer fighting it. “If we’re on a proper date, and I’m going to buy you dinner and walk you home, then at least I should do it right. Like in the movies.”

“You’re dumb,” Aleks mutters, still red. Oh, James is _so_ proud of himself.

“You like it,” he sing-songs, and Aleks lets out the most ridiculous, dramatic sigh that James has ever heard as they head down the street. He falls into step with James, though, lets his elbow rest in the crook of James’s arm while his hand fits into his own pocket, and it’s… good, is a word for it. It feels very natural; Aleks is only just barely shorter than he is, maybe by an inch if that, and it makes for easy walking. They walk at the same pace, and when James sneaks a peek, he finds that Aleks is smiling. It’s a gentle little thing; it’s not broad or cheeky. It’s just a little tilt of his lips, and the streetlamps are reflected in his eyes.

James looks ahead again, tries not to take too deep a breath.

“So, uh,” Aleks finally says; he’s been leading James, just a bit, tugging him along whenever they needed to make a turn or cross a street. They hadn’t done a lot of talking, but James, who _relishes_ in the loud bustling of the world, had found it oddly comforting. “This is my building.”

Unwillingly, James finally lets his arm go. It drops to his side, useless, and James turns to look at him again.

“I guess this is the part where we both talk about what a good time we had?” he says after a minute, and Aleks chuckles softly.

“I mean, if we wanna go full cliche, yeah.” Aleks pauses, considers him thoughtfully. “I did, though? Have a good time? So there’s that.”

“Mmm,” James hums. “You know how to make a man feel special.”

“Shut up,” Aleks says easily, and nudges him a bit. “I show you an ounce of gratitude and you toss it back in my face, all the time. It’s getting old.”

“And yet you keep coming back,” James points out. He means for it to be a joke, but he can see the way that Aleks considers it, the way his shoulders rise and fall, just once, as he laughs a bit. Whatever it was running through his head, Aleks doesn’t say; instead he just shoves his hands in his pockets, takes a step back so that he’s standing on the step above James. It only puts him a couple of inches higher, but James has to crane his head anyway, has to move forward a bit.

“Don’t…” Aleks starts, falters, starts again. “Don’t make fun of me, but. Seriously, James. This was… it was nice. You know? I had fun.”

“I thought we weren’t going to be cliche,” James says, but it’s softer than he intended. With the way that Aleks is standing, and the way he’s moved a bit closer, he’s looking right into Aleks’s eyes. To his horror, his heart starts to beat a little faster as they look at each other. Holy fuck. “I mean. Right. No jokes. Yeah. I…” He swallows. “I had fun too.”

Aleks’s grin grows a little wider, and they’re left to sort of awkwardly stare at each other.

Finally, James says the first thing that comes to mind. It’s stupid, as it tends to be, but it’s also probably the most impulsive thing he’s done in a while.

“You still owe me a kiss,” he says quietly, and Aleks tilts his head, furrows his eyebrows. James clarifies. “You said the date wasn’t over until you gave me a kiss on the cheek.” He holds up his fingers, ticks them off. “I bought you dinner. Walked you home. Presumably made you swoon.” He switches tactics, changes so that he can tap his cheek as he holds it out. “And I ain’t going home ‘til I get my kiss I was promised.”

“I thought we said no jokes.”

James pretends to be affronted. “I’m not joking!”

He watches as Aleks lowers his head, as he smiles into his chest a little before raising his head again and sighing. He looks like he’s so endeared, looks at James with a fondness in his eyes that has his stomach flipping over. He keeps his cheek out, purses his lips a little to make the skin there more taut as he taps again.

“I’m _waiting_ , Aleksandr.”

“Okay, Jesus.” Aleks laughs. “You’re so fuckin’ pushy, dude.”

James flutters his eyelashes, nods his head a little pointedly as he closes his eyes and waits. His heart is going batshit in his chest, hard enough that surely Aleks should be able to hear it. But James keeps his breathing even, and when warm lips press lightly against his cheek, he can’t help the wide smile that spreads over his face.

There’s a happiness he hasn’t felt in a long time burbling up from his stomach, spreading out to his fingers and toes. It’s human companionship, but more than that it’s something he gets to keep for himself, something given to him by a person that he finds himself caring more and more about every day. It’s something that makes him feel alive again, makes him feel like six months ago, when everything careened wildly out of his control… it feels like, for one brief moment, none of that ever happened. That when he opens his eyes he’ll be _James_ again, the one he used to be _._ The spell will be broken, he’ll look like himself and have his life back and never have to take another soul ever.

When he opens his eyes, it’s only Aleks standing there, and that, in many ways, is a good compromise.

“Happy?” Aleks asks, not understanding _what_ he’s asking, and James feels his heart swelling.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, actually.”

If he’s confused, Aleks doesn’t show it. Instead he sort of looks around, runs a hand through his hair again and then scratches a bit at the top of his head. James feels a little dazed, if he’s to be honest, and after a second or two he’s got to go for it.

“Hey, Aleks?”

“Hmm?”

“Could I…” He falters, hesitates, then takes the damn plunge before he can regret it. “Can I, like. Actually kiss you? Like, for real?”

Aleks jerks back, more out of shock than anything else, James hopes. His eyes go a little wide as he blinks a bunch of times, and James laughs despite himself. It’s such a startled reaction, but one that’s _cute,_ makes him look like he’s just been given the surprise of his life. James just looks up at him, feels that swelling again when Aleks swallows and then inhales a bit, like he’s shocked.

“I, uh,” Aleks says, too quickly, “I. Yeah. Yeah, we could do that. Yeah.”

James beams up at him.

“Yeah?”

Aleks runs a hand down his face. “Yeah.”

His heart’s about to break out, his ribs a jail cell, his damn body a prison. Little fucker’s gonna head for the hills, with how hard it’s beating in his chest now. He’s dead, he’s _literally_ dead and yet he’s still feeling his pulse like a jackhammer. James has his head tilted up, he’s just _looking,_ he’s looking at Aleks, at his white shirt and his dark eyes, and Aleks is looking right back at him.

In that moment, James wishes he looked like himself more than ever before, wishes that Aleks could see _him_ when he hesitantly leans forward. James closes his eyes again. There are still a couple of people here and there, but the street is relatively quiet; somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.

He sort of expected there to be fireworks in his head, or something clicking into place. Instead, when Aleks’s lips brush against his there’s the feeling of wanting _more._ He wants more than a gentle press of lips, he wants to pull Aleks in by his jaw and tilt his head, have their mouths fit together like a stupid puzzle piece, he wants to smile into it and feel Aleks smile back, he wants to pull him in by that white shirt and press their chests together and just feel the line of his body against his. He wants to feel _alive,_ in a way that only Aleks has been able to make him feel at all. He wants to do a lot of things, in that moment, when Aleks kisses him.

It’s softer, than all of that. They kiss briefly, a press of lips, a drag of their mouths as they kiss lightly a second time, and then Aleks pulls back again. James has to force his eyes open, feeling hot all over, feeling like he could probably walk on air, and he looks up at Aleks. Aleks looks a little pleased, a little flustered.

“That was a good idea,” James says faintly after a moment, and he’s rewarded with Aleks’s little puff of laughter.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and James can see he means it. “Yeah, it was.”

“If I take you on another date,” James continues, hasn’t moved, “can we, can we do that again?”

He watches as Aleks pretends to mull it over, takes just enough time that James feels itchy with nerves before he says, “yeah, I think I can probably clear my schedule.”

James rolls on the balls of his feet, grins happily.

“Well, then, I get to choose next,” he says, and the way Aleks tilts his head to the skies is playful. “So you’d better be prepared because second dates are where it starts to get _serious._ If you think you’re swooning now, just you wait.” He feels light, feels like he could probably do anything right now. Aleks runs his hand through his hair again, and James watches the motion of it, still with a big, goofy grin on his face.

“Just let me know when,” is what he says, and he sounds how James feels. “I’ll be there.”

James gives him two thumbs up, and Aleks laughs at him. It’s high and breathy and _happy._ James is the one swooning now.

“Good night, James,” Aleks says, a little pointedly, though he hasn’t stopped smiling. Unwilling to leave just yet, wanting nothing more than to jump up on that step and kiss Aleks again, but knowing that’s not in the cards, James nods his head. Backing away is probably the hardest thing he’s had to do all week.

“Yeah. Yeah! Good night!” He shoves his hands in his pockets, tries to keep his grin in check. “Yep. I’ll text you.”

“Okay,” Aleks says, but he doesn’t move for a moment either, and they look at each other for another long moment before James clears his throat, backs away more.

“Okay. Yeah. Good night,” he repeats, and Aleks blinks, starts to walk backwards up the stairs.

“Yep. Night.”

James doesn’t want to go, but he does. One last wave and he turns around, starts to walk at as normal of a pace as he’s able until he rounds a corner. He doesn’t look over his shoulder once the entire time, forces himself to look straight ahead. He can’t help but think of shitty romance movies, when the girl runs up as her love interest is walking away and they kiss, sweeping and romantic, can’t help but imagine that happening. He really is a teenage girl, but if Aleks came up behind him James would probably never be able to let him go.

This is bad. It’s real bad. James thought he could handle being friends, but he’s too far deep already, and even though he knows he’s making a huge mistake he can’t _stop_. As soon as he’s fully out of sight of Aleks’s apartment he leans against the nearest brick wall and lets out a long breath. Holy shit. Holy _shit._ He reaches up, spreads his fingers out against his chest and just feels the beat of his heart against his palm.

He feels a bit overwhelmed, a bit flabbergasted at himself and at this situation he’s found himself in, but most of all he feels a happiness that’s threatening to spill over, spill out of him like a waterfall and light up the fucking world around him. He tilts his head back, stares up at the cloudy sky that’s lit from the city. There are stars somewhere up there, but he can’t see them through the thick overcast. He thinks of the twinkle of streetlamps in Aleks’s eyes.

James has got it _so bad._

He power walks the whole way home, unable to go slow, unable to stop grinning like a fucking moron. He might as well be sixteen again for how widely he’s smiling, for how he closes his apartment door behind him and then flings himself face first onto his bed and yells into the mattress. He lays there, sprawled out like a starfish, grinning like a fucking lunatic against the sheets. Outside the city is still alive, and inside, for the first time, he really feels like he is too.

Getting into bed is a blessing and a curse; he throws Asher’s shirt into the laundry and slips under the covers, stares at his phone and wonders when the cut-off is for texting someone after you’ve just gone on a date. He decides it’s good enough, and he reaches out, immediately types twenty different drafts of what he wants to say before he finally settles on something short and simple.

_Hope that dessert was as sweet as me :)_

A couple of minutes later, he gets an answer.

_You complain about me making sex jokes and then send me this shit James_

He laughs out loud, literally barks laughter out into the quiet of his room.

_Personality asshole. I’ve got a sweet personality_

_Yeah well don’t set me up and then shoot me down_

_Fine you get one freebie_

It takes a little too long for Aleks to answer, but when he does, James feels his face burning up in a split second.

_Yeah well we’ll find out how sweet you taste eventually_

After that he has to put his phone facedown on the bedside table and shove his face into the pillow. That should not be so hot, _it should not be hot_ considering they’re talking about goddamn dessert, but holy fuck. Aleks went full throttle for a second there, and James twists a bit in his sheets, has a sudden, too-sharp visual of Aleks on his knees. Whew boy. Far too early for that. He sighs, picks up his phone again and immediately starts laughing again as he reads his texts.

_Was that too much_

_James_

_JAMES_

He snorts, types back his reply. _Holy fuck calm down. Consider me sold you dirty mofo_

_Jesus christ dude don’t leave me hanging like that_

_Gotta make you work for it :P_

_GOODNIGHT ASSHOLE_

James holds his phone up over his head, lets the light of it illuminate his whole face as he types.

_Goodnight sleep tight ;)_

After that he plugs his phone in for the night, runs a hand through his hair as he settles into the pillows and stares at the ceiling. He’s not sure which turn his afterlife has decided to take, but he thinks he might like it. He’ll just have to wait and see.


	7. i'll stay awake 'til i trade my mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG CHAPTER, WHEW. hope yall enjoy! 
> 
> content warning, however, for blood and a bit of gore! proceed with caution! D; james's actions are starting to have consequences on others now...
> 
> as always, thank you so much to everyone leaving such kind words! i can't thank you enough! :D if you'd like, come say hi on [tumblr](http://myriadus.tumblr.com)!

James wakes up to both his cheek in a damp puddle of his own drool and his phone ringing on the bedside table. His alarm hasn’t gone off yet, which could be either a good sign or a bad sign; that remains to be seen. He grunts, slowly sits up and wipes at his mouth as he gropes for his phone, groans when he finally sees who it is.

“No,” he mumbles when he answers, shoves his face back into his pillow. There’s one thing that James hates even more than getting the damn Post-It, and that’s when Brett calls him before it’s time to get up. That means _early reap,_ it means that if James wants to sleep in that’s too fucking bad, and most of all James hates early reaps because that’s how _he_ fucking died, too. He sincerely hopes Aron was just as damn tired that fateful day when he got out of bed to kill James and doomed him to this shit.

“Well, good morning to you, too.” And alright, Brett’s already a supernatural entity but there’s got to be something more than that going on, because no man should be that awake before the sun’s hit the top of the buildings. “Time to get up and face the day, you’ve got a reap at a quarter after seven.”

” _Brrreeeeeeeettttttttttttt_ ,” James whines into the pillow, for as long as he’s able, and he can hear Brett laughing at him.

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty. You know I don’t pick the times.”

“I still hate you,” he says childishly, pushes himself up into a sitting position. The sun is barely poking in past the blinds, and he groans as he rubs at his face, glares at the strips of light on his carpet. “There should be a rule or something, this shit’s way too early.”

“Well, be sure to let the poor fuck whose soul you’re taking know that their time of death is inconvenient to you,” Brett says mildly, and James can tell by his tone that he’s only half paying attention to the conversation. “Anyway, you’d better get moving. I’ll see you at the Waffle Haus, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah,” James mutters, and pulls the sheets off himself, presses end on the call. After that he yawns, runs a hand through his hair as he blearily goes through his notifications. He just has a meme from Trevor that he sent James at around three in the morning, which is just like him, and he chuckles at it as he swings his legs out of bed. For a moment he just sits there, wiggles his toes into the carpet and lets out another huge yawn as he slowly pushes himself up to stand and get ready.

His hair’s still wet from his quick dip in the shower as he sets about leaving; he spritzes the plants with some water, shrugs on his jacket, lets the door click quietly behind himself. It’s still way too early for any sane man to be up, and he tugs his hair up nice and tight as he steps out into the chilly morning air, breathes into his hands and rubs them together as he starts walking.

He lets his mind drift to Aleks, and he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. He may hate having an early reap, but they set their second date for today. He can spend the rest of the day knowing that it’ll be to themselves, and that puts a little hop to his step that hadn’t been there before.

When he pokes his head into the Waffle Haus, he catches sight of Brett at their table. He’s leaning back with his head against the back of the booth, eyes closed, but he cracks one open when James flops himself into the booth across from him, looks at him down the length of his nose. He doesn’t look tired so much as bored.

“Morning,” he says, and James grunts at him.

Brett chuckles, lets his eye shut again as he sighs up at the ceiling. James orders a coffee and a plate of chocolate chip pancakes and sits back, lets the coffee warm his hands as soon as it’s brought out. It’ll be nice out again by the later part of the morning, but right now he’s fucking freezing. Even death doesn’t stop early morning cold from sucking, apparently.

Brett sighs out through his nose and sits up straight again, pulls out his stack of Post-Its from his pocket and unsticks the top one.

“So it turns out,” he says as he hands it to James, “that you and I are a team today.”

“Double whammy, huh?” James wrinkles his nose as he stares down at the Post-It. “That sucks for them.”

“Mm.” Brett leans back, regards him for a moment. “It does. You know, I don’t think we’ve actually gone out on a reap together since you died, have we?”

“No,” James says, a little sourly. He doesn’t like to think back to that day, when he was lost and afraid and in danger of crying at the slightest provocation. Brett doesn’t seem to be mocking him, seems to just be stating a fact, but it makes shame burble in the pit of his stomach anyway. “Lucky you, I guess. You haven’t had to cart the newbie around.”

“Carting the newbie around is part of my job,” Brett says, a touch dryly. “Thankfully I only have to do it every couple of decades or so.”

James can’t help but sneer a little at him, takes another long sip of coffee. He doesn’t necessarily _dislike_ Brett, at least not so much anymore, but he thinks that their first interactions may have… soured his opinion on him a bit. Brett’s sarcasm and dry wit don’t exactly lend themselves to him coming across as the nicest guy in the world, and he certainly seems to take particular joy in making James’s life just a little bit harder, but Trevor’s told him (multiple times, even) that it’s just the way Brett’s always been.

Still, that doesn’t mean he has to _like_ it. He looks down at his reflection in the coffee, sighs as he looks at the Post-It again. He’s real sick of this shit, but he just as to make it through today and then he can… well, he can sit around and wait for Aleks, maybe clean up his apartment a bit.

He took the chance. He went ahead and invited Aleks over to his apartment for a date, instead of just going out to another restaurant. Part of it is because James only has so much money at any given time, thief that he is, but the rest of it is that he wants to show off a bit. He can cook well enough; certainly not going to be showing up on the Food Network any time soon, but he can make pasta, and pasta’s a pretty good second date meal, especially when it’s homemade. He just has to make sure he doesn’t make an idiot of himself in the process.

And of course, James isn’t _stupid_. He’s aware of the implications behind inviting a date to his apartment.

Still, he’d offered and Aleks had said yes, so implications aside, at least they can try and have a good time. It wasn’t hard for them the first time, after they broke the ice, and James gets the feeling that Aleks is eager to go out again. James even went ahead and double-checked the movies on that stupid Fire Stick thing, made sure there was at least _something_ two over-critical twentysomethings could watch and make fun of. Once more, he’s thinking too hard about the situation, knows that if he just lets go and lets himself act the way he always does, things will go a lot smoother. He just has remind himself to relax.

He also has to remind himself that he’s fucking _dead_.

“You ever have sex with someone alive?” he asks out of the blue, mostly to start conversation, but a lot to get the answer to a question he’s already half-answered by himself. Brett doesn’t look up, nor seem very fazed; instead he just types something out on his phone with his thumb, spoon in his other hand.

“This is the part where I say _I’m a centenarian, I’m not dead._ But that’s a lie.” He finally flicks his eyes up, and there’s an absolutely _horrid,_ proud smirk on his face. “I’m both.”

James groans loudly, leans back in his seat.

“Really? A dad joke? That’s it. I’m choosing the void after all. I’m fucking done, man.”

“I think at this point it’s a granddad joke,” Brett says through a mouthful of his yogurt. “What’s got your mind on sex, anyway? Dry spell?”

“I’m dead _._ Every day’s a dry spell.” Asher coming through for him, it seems. Brett either doesn’t know or just doesn’t care. “I was watching TV last night, there was a rad sex scene. Just wondering, is all. If we can do that.”

“Well, your boys aren’t swimming, nor are the STDs,” Brett says casually, and dips his spoon back into his breakfast. “So no worries there. No half-dead reaper babies with syphilis.”

“That’s so wrong,” James complains as their usual waitress puts his pancakes down in front of him. She doesn’t even seem to notice the conversation. She just puts down their checks and goes on her merry way. James appreciates her immensely.

“But, to answer your question,” Brett continues, like there was no interruption at all; James is used to that from Brett at this point. “Yeah, don’t see the big issue there. Most of us have.” He scoops up another mouthful of yogurt and granola, looks at James a bit thoughtfully. “You’re good-looking. I would assume _one_ person would fuck you, at least.”

“I don’t _look like this_ to other people!” James says, going bright red in the face.

Brett makes a agreeable sort of face, eats his mouthful.

“True. I forget that part nowadays.”

James immediately turns to his pancakes, sets about cutting them up into pieces he can stick into his mouth while the color in his cheeks go down. He’s not necessarily used to Brett giving out any sort of compliments, and as he lets the chocolate chips melt on his tongue, he peeks up again. Brett’s paying him no mind, just fucking around on his phone. Jesus Christ. It’s like whiplash, sometimes.

They eat silently, Brett finishing up a little before James. It’s not necessarily a comfortable silence, not the kind that James has shared with Aleks, or with Joe and Trevor, but it’s not that awkward either. James shoves the rest of his pancakes in his mouth and then licks the syrup off his fingers before sliding out of the booth, digging around in his pockets for his wallet.

“You look like you’ve really got a handle on this,” Brett says, and James looks up at him a bit curiously.

“Well, yeah,” he says after a moment, pulls out a ten to throw on the table. “Kind of had to, didn’t I?”

Brett hums, throws his own money on the table as well, along with two Post-Its for Joe and Trevor, and a note on top asking their waitress to give those to them. James watches him, but he must not have anything else to say about it, because he just nods his head towards the door with raised eyebrows. James shrugs, makes a face right back.

He lets his mind wander as they head out. He’s already got an idea of what he wants to make for dinner tonight, already has an idea of a movie after. He want it to be… he doesn’t want to say _special_ because that’s fuckin’ gay, but that’s probably the best way he can put it. Yeah. He wants it to be special. He really likes Aleks, even though in the back of his mind he knows he shouldn’t. Aleks was supposed to be dead three weeks ago, and he’s not, and while it doesn’t seem like there’s anything wrong, James doesn’t know that for _sure._

James looks over at Brett as they walk, wonders if he should ask now. He should. He _knows_ he should.

He doesn’t know what’ll happen. As much as James is a fan of pushing away the problem until there’s no choice but to face it, he knows that now’s his chance. Ther anxiety builds up in the pit of his stomach. He should ask. He should _know_ what’s going to happen, if there are going to be consequences. It would be easy, and… and whatever consequences _do_ exist, James can confront them now before it’s too late. He stares at Brett, feeling a sudden terror that wraps around his heart, ice cold.

What if there _are_ consequences? Aleks seems fine now, but… fuck.

“Hey, Brett?” He’s talking before he can stop himself, and when Brett looks over, the air feels thin.

“Yeah?”

_Ask, you fucking coward._

“I just—” He trails off for a second, shrugs his shoulders. “You said you died in World War II, right?”

Fuck.

Brett looks a little taken aback by the question, blinks a couple of times.

“Yeah. Why?”

James shrugs his shoulders. “Just curious, that’s all. Long time ago.” He tries to grin, even though his nerves still feel shot, even though he’s internally berating himself for being such a pussy. “You’re looking pretty spry for such an old fuck. You know?”

That gets Brett to laugh, shockingly, and he shakes his head as they round the corner.

“Do you _really_ want to know how old I actually am, James?” he says wryly, looking over at him. There’s a smug look to his expression as he lifts his head up a bit. They’re almost the same height, but Brett always puts out an aura of being _bigger;_ bigger than James, certainly, if not louder. James squints at him, unsure. When he doesn’t answer, the smug look grows, and Brett’s lips quirk up into a private smile as he leans in. “I was born in 1910.”

That gets James to stop in his tracks. 1910? _1910_? What the _fuck_?

“What the _fuck,_ ” he says out loud. He must have a hell of an expression on his face, because Brett stops in his tracks and starts laughing harder. James doesn’t find it particularly funny, personally. 1910? That’s a year that James can’t even _conceive._ He was born in 1990, which means that Brett is a full eighty years older than him, easy. Add on the extra twenty-plus years, and Brett’s well over a hundred years old. He wasn’t fucking around when he called himself a centenarian; James had kind of just assumed he’d been joking.

“Jesus Christ,” he says weakly. “You’re old as _shit._ ”

Brett shrugs his shoulders, still chuckling a bit. “You’re the one who asked. I’m just telling the truth, and the truth is that as sick of this shit as you think _you_ are, I’m absolutely 100% more sick of it.”

“No fucking kidding.” James watches as the light changes, as the throng of people around them start to move. That’s put him right into another hole as he remembers what Asher had said, too. _When they’re getting older and you’re not._ James has a lot more questions, ones that would raise suspicions more than provide him with any sort of help, so he keeps his mouth shut. Still. 1910. He thinks back to college history classes, thinks of Prohibition, the Great Depression, the fucking _Titanic,_ which he only knows the date of because of that damn movie. Fuck. Brett was older than _all_ those things, things that James had always just considered ancient history in his eyes.

“Don’t think so hard,” Brett says mildly, and James looks over at him. “Anna’s older than me, and I’m only two years older than Lindsey. Physical appearances aside, of course. It’s just how things are.”

James runs both his hands down his face.

“How the fuck long am I going to be _doing_ this?” he asks, and his voice has gone a little shrill. Brett just shrugs his shoulders, reaches into his pocket for his own Post-It, then check his watch.

“As long as you have to. C’mon.”

James hurries after Brett, who’s started to jog across the street. They make their way towards a larger hotel on the nicer side of town, big windows and a valet at the front. James never came to this part of town before he died, and he certainly only comes around when he has to. Everyone seems a bit stuffy for his taste, all three-piece suits and purebred dogs for the sake of owning them. He wrinkles his nose a bit as he hovers a bit behind Brett, who’s looking at his Post-It again.

“We have the same last name,” Brett muses out loud, “so probably a married couple. Or parent and kid.”

“Please be the first one,” James groans weakly, and Brett shoots him a knowing smile before scanning the crowd that’s leaking out of the front of the hotel. They both sidestep over, lean against the wall near the plants adorning the arch of the door, watch for two people who might be related in some way. James looks out of the corner of his eye at Brett, who’s just watching people come and go with an intent look on his face. It strikes James again just how long Brett’s being doing this. He shakes his head, looks back at the people who are slowly trickling out.

“There,” Brett says quietly, and points at a pair, a man and a woman; James follows his line of sight, zeroes in on the luggage tag hanging off a large suitcase. He squints at the name, recognizes both the surname and the first name as the initial matching his Post-It. “I guess I’ve got her husband, brother, whatever, then.”

“And if you’re wrong?” James asks, half serious, half wanting to _know,_ but Brett just huffs a laugh.

“I’m never wrong.”

James scoffs, but follows after Brett as he strolls towards the couple. It’s so damn casual, how he just leans a bit too far to the right, catches the man’s shoulder with a fake trip that has James reaching forward to grab him.

“Jesus,” Brett says calmly, pats the guy on the shoulder again while James steadies him. “Sorry ‘bout that, sir.”

“You’re so fucking clumsy,” James complains, turns and rests his hand on the woman’s arm in a show of comfort; she looks a bit startled, while the man just looks put off. “Can’t take him anywhere, I swear. I hope he didn’t startle you too bad, ma’am.”

“We’re fine,” she says slowly, unsure, and James carefully lifts his hand, lets her soul wisp out into the chilly morning air. From next to him, Brett rolls his eyes, shoves his hands in his pocket and huffs at him.

“Whatever, I just tripped,” he says, sounding agitated, and James shakes his head.

“Can we just go? You’re bothering these poor people, and you’re pissing me off,” he snaps, and Brett sneers at him before walking off. James apologizes once more, backs away with his hands out before he turns, hurries after Brett. Brett’s walking at a brisk pace, shoulders up around his ears, but as soon as James catches up with him he breaks out into a smile.

“Well, look at you,” he says, and he’s giving James that smug look again. James scowls at him, but it’s not very sincere, and it turns up into a grin when Brett gives him a hard clap on the shoulder. “Not bad, newbie.”

Turns out that James still deeply, deeply enjoys praise, and he can feel himself glowing at the compliment. Brett gives him another hard clap, looks over his shoulder and James watches as his face darkens. James turns too, sees the flash of gray skin underneath the car that the couple just got into. Gravelings.

“Trevor said you don’t like them too much,” James says quietly, and Brett’s gaze doesn’t waver from the car; James can see his eyes tracking the progress of the graveling as it does something under the car and then bolts up, a blur, climbs the length of the hotel and vanishes.

“No,” he says tightly. “I don’t.”

They both watch as couple’s car drives off, as it careens into another one with the earsplitting sound of metal twisting around metal. James turns around again, waits and then nods as the two materialize just in front of them. They’re both staring at the wreckage of their car, stunned. Brett finally tears his eyes away from the wreck, instead turns his attention to the couple, his entire expression shifting.

“Sorry about that,” Brett says gently, and pats the man’s shoulder again. “Everything in one piece?”

“Yeah,” the man says weakly, and James watches as Brett’s eyes go soft, softer than he’s ever really seen them. James hurries up to the woman’s side, takes her elbow as carefully as he can and gestures with a tilt of his chin as she looks at him, startled.

“Go on,” he says, and he looks between him and the shimmering sight before all of them.

“Are we dead?” she asks, and James nods. “Oh god, we’re _dead_?”

“But… we’re on our honeymoon,” the guy says, still in that tiny voice, and James’s heart clenches up despite himself. Fuck.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, but he points at the golden house that’s waiting for both of them, nudges them close together. “But you’re still together anyway, and that’s what’s important, right?”

He watches as they look at each other, as emotions he can’t really place flicker across their expressions. Brett’s watching James, though, and there’s a look on his face that James can’t identify either. Suddenly uncomfortable, James clears his throat and nudges at the woman again.

“Seriously, though,” he says, and he watches as they link hands, as they look at each other. His throat tightens, and he takes a step back, ignores how Brett’s looking at him. “Enjoy yourselves. Whole afterlife waiting for you.”

They walk together, hand in hand, towards the lights. They both seem to have forgotten James and Brett, and James watches as they disappear into that golden shimmer, as the image gives way to a smoking car and people trying desperately to pull survivors from the wreck. The wind blows around them, gentle, just enough that James can feel it fluttering the hem of his jacket.

“Huh,” Brett says out loud, and James looks over at him with a frown, feeling himself tense up.

“ _What_.”

“Nothing.” Brett shrugs. “I just didn’t take you for the hopeless romantic type, that’s all.”

James opens his mouth to protest, but Brett just holds up a hand. It’s commanding, even though it’s such a simple gesture, and James clamps his mouth shut again and glowers. He’s not sure how much of it is an insult, since Brett’s still looking at him with that unreadable expression on his face. It makes James uncomfortable, makes him itchy because he doesn’t know what it _means._

“We’d better head back.” Brett looks out towards the car wreck, towards the ambulances that are starting to convene like they always do. James watches them, thinks back to the day he died. He thinks of Aleks, suddenly. Destined to be flattened by a train, and instead he’s coming over to James’ apartment for a date. He thinks of the man who died in his place, wonders where that graveling is now.

Life and death work in mysterious ways, and he stares down at his hands. Mostly he thinks of that couple just now, linking hands as they move towards the afterlife together. They had each other in the end, something that James was never going to experience. It hurts, a deep hurt, an ache in his muscles that he can’t put a name too. He thinks of all the people, himself included, who weren’t lucky enough to die alongside the ones they care most about.

“James,” Brett says, and James looks up at him. “Doing alright?”

James swallows, the click of it loud in his own ears.

“Yeah. Just…” He turns away again. “Just thinking.”

“You seem to be doing a lot of that recently,” Brett notes casually, and James squints at him before changing the subject.

“Why do you hate gravelings so much?” It’s a question that’s been gnawing at his curiosity for ages, since Trevor first told him. He’s gotten to know Brett least of all the other reapers, and out of every one of them, Brett seems like the one that dislikes them the most. Of course, James can’t think of a reason to _like_ them, but whereas everyone else just keeps their distance and lets them do their job, Brett seems to actively _hate_ them.

Sure enough, Brett’s jaw tightens a little, and he sighs as he looks towards the crowd of people they have to maneuver through. James follows after him, nudges through shoulders and chests until they both come out the other side. He can hear people talking about the wreck, and talking about… something about a collapse. He almost turns his head to listen in, but when they come out of the crowd, Brett speaks. It’s quiet, and distant, and it’s more serious than James has ever heard him. It drives everything else out of his head instantly.

“I died on the front line,” he says stiffly, and James blinks, stunned. He hadn’t really expected Brett to give him the whole story. “In 1944. You see a lot of them, when you’re in a war. I don’t... like them because they killed a lot of soldiers I was. You know.” He shrugs. “Close with. Pushed off their helmets, or tripped them, or pulled them into the line of fire. Dark shit like that.”

“Oh.” James isn’t sure what to say to that, and to his shock and relief, Brett laughs. It’s a bit sour, and not very happy, but it’s still there.

“Congratulations,” he says, and looks over at James with a wry grin. “You’ve unlocked the first tragic backstory level.”

“That’s pretty fucking tragic,” James admits after a second. He feels a bit sick. “Holy fuck, dude. That was your _first day_?”

Brett takes a deep breath, lets it out as he tilts his head once, sharply. “Sure enough was. Yours doesn’t seem so bad by comparison, now does it?” He shrugs his shoulders, shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’m pretty much over it, that shit leaves a pretty little scar all over your psyche but after seventy years it fades. You just kind of let it. I mean, no one asks to be a reaper. You just kind of have to make do with what you’re given.”

He’s not really sure he has an answer to that, but he’s spared having to come up with one by Brett’s phone ringing. He watches as Brett frowns down at the screen, holds it up to his ear.

“What’s up?” Immediately he can hear someone chattering loudly and frantically, and Brett winces, pulls the phone away from his ear. “Joe. Joe, Jesus, calm down. Breathe. What the fuck is going on?” He pauses, then pulls a face. “Why the fuck are you at _my_ house?”

James watches, growing wide-eyed, as Brett listens very intently, as his expression goes from confused, to concerned, to darkly serious. He has no idea what’s going on at all, but he gathers a bit when Brett says, “okay. Okay, I’ll be right there. Just wait for me, I’m not that far. Keep him on the kitchen floor and please get as little blood as possible on anything, got me? Okay. Stay calm, bud.”

“What the fuck happened?” James asks as soon as Brett hands up. Brett starts walking at a brisk pace, and James has to hurry to follow up. “Brett! Hey!”

“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear,” Brett mutters, and he looks _angry._ “I guess Joe and Trevor were out for their reaps and got caught up in some graveling shit, and now they’re at my house. Trevor’s hurt.”

There’s a swooping feeling in James’s chest that he doesn’t have a name for. He hurries to keep up, can feel his voice rising again.

“I thought—” He struggles to lower his voice. “I thought we could, I dunno, can’t we— heal, or whatever?” That’s what everyone had told him, and he hadn’t really believed it until the first time he’d burned his hand trying to get the oven started in his apartment. His fingers had been shiny and red, but practically before his eyes, the burns had vanished as if they’d never been there in the first place.

The noise Brett makes sounds like an angry sigh.

“I don’t fucking know. Joe’s a big baby, and so is Trevor. Just come on.”

James doesn’t even consider arguing, just keeps following Brett as they make their way through the city. James is in significantly less shape than Brett, and by the time Brett pulls him up onto a local bus, James is sweating and panting. He sits down heavily on one of the empty seats, but Brett stands, and there’s still that angry look on his face. When he sneaks a peek at his watch, James realizes that while it’s not noon, he’s still got to get home at some point before six. Fuck.

Still, when Brett pulls him up by his jacket and tugs him off the bus again, he immediately forgets about his plans, forgets about his whole morning as he follows. They’re just a little bit past downtown, and James realizes that he didn’t even know where Brett lived until this point. It’s more houses than apartments, and James manages a solid power walk without gagging until Brett’s leading him up to one of them. There’s blood on the doorknob, and the steps, too.

“Fuck,” Brett says out loud, and James follows him in warily.

Joe immediately comes running in as soon as they shut the door, and James takes a step back out of shock. Joe’s covered in a fine layer of dust, and he’s got blood all over the front of his shirt, and he looks on the verge of freaking the fuck out.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, frazzled and panicked, holding up hands that are caked in blood, too. “Fuck, Brett, I’m sorry, we were close and Trevor had the key and I can’t get the fucking thing out—”

“It’s fine,” Brett says, and James watches as he cups the nape of Joe’s neck, shakes him a little to calm him. “You’re fine, Joe, don’t apologize. Kitchen?”

“Kitchen,” Joe repeats weakly, practically melting in the touch, and then catches sight of James. “Oh. Hey, James.”

“Hi,” James croaks, staring at all the blood. “Uh. Rough day?”

“You could say that,” Joe replies, just as there’s a loud wail from the kitchen. They both immediately scamper towards the sound, and James staggers in the doorway as he catches sight of Trevor, has to grab hold of the archway.

The poor kid’s stretched out on the kitchen tiles with Brett kneeling at his side, and there’s a long stick of rebar sticking out of his stomach. In any other situation, the pissed off look on his face combined with pain would be hilarious, but the gore of it is making James a little weak-kneed. He ought to be used to this, to blood and guts and shit, but also, it’s something that’s never happened to anyone he _knows._

“How we doing,” Brett says mildly, pushes some of Trevor’s hair out of his eyes. Trevor glares up at him, dusty and sweaty and pale. He looks like absolute shit, bleeding on the tiles and all over his shirt and pants, long stripes of clear skin on his face where tears had streaked through the dust.

“Joe’s a fucking pussy,” he says, and there’s a tremor in his voice. “Can you get this _fucking thing_ out of my _fucking stomach,_ dude? Please?”

“I’m sorry,” Joe says again from behind James, and his voice is small. “I, dude, it made a gross noise and I wimped out, I’m sorry, Trevor—”

“Oh my god, I’m so fucking mad at you, you _fucking_ —” Trevor starts to snap, but he’s cut off as he arches with another loud scream; Brett touches the rebar again, a bit more gently this time. “ _God,_ fuck! Fuck! Shit!”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Brett says, not unkindly. “We’ll get it out and then you’ll be fit as a fiddle. Just stay still.”

Trevor spits out a loud, angry combination of some very rude words, and James almost laughs at it. Brett ignores him in favor of spreading one hand out on Trevor’s chest, the other one wrapping around the rebar. He gives it a gentle tug and Trevor makes another loud noise of pain; he stops, sighs.

“James, I need your help,” he says tightly, and James balks _instantly._

“The fuck? What? No,” he says quickly, taking a step back. “I’m not—no, fuck that. Sorry, Trevor.”

“I hate _all of you_ ,” Trevor says into his hands, and he’s started to shake.

“I just need you to hold him down,” Brett says patiently; he’s still got his hand pressed down firmly on Trevor’s chest, but as James looks between the rebar and all the blood, he starts shaking his head. He cannot possibly fucking do that, man. He’s squeamish, it’s gross, nope. This is all too much for him in the span of one day. He’s stuck in some kind of horror movie now.

“James,” Brett says again, but there’s more of an edge to it, and finally James relents.

“Oh my god,” he says weakly, hobbling over to Trevor’s head and kneeling down. Trevor immediately grabs a hold of his wrist, and James lets him, even though it’s sticky and wet against his skin. “Dude, that’s fucking gnarly. Holy shit. I’m gonna hurl.”

“You puke on me and I will lose it,” Trevor says weakly, still angrily, and his grip tightens on James’s wrist as Brett takes hold of the rebar again.

“Okay, Trev,” Brett says, and his tone is soothing. “Count of three. James, just hold him. Ready?”

“No,” both Trevor and James say immediately. James presses his palms hard on Trevor’s shoulders, and he can feel him shaking again. Brett just takes a deep breath, muscles in his arms tensing as he wiggles his fingers once around the rebar and then tightens his hold.

“One… _two_.” On two Brett pulls, hard, and the rebar comes out with sick squelch that turns James’s stomach right over and makes him gag. Trevor howls underneath him, and James’s wrist feels like it’s going to snap clean in two in Trevor’s grasp; Trevor goes completely rigid underneath his hands before slumping down, breathing too hard.

“Three,” Brett says, and the rebar clanks loudly as he tosses it somewhere else in the kitchen.

“Oh my god,” James says again, weakly, and when he takes his hands away there’s a smear of blood on the wrist Trevor had been holding. He sits until his back hits the wall and then he’s just trying to process. Trevor heaves an enormous breath and then lets it out in one shaking sob before he starts laughing.

“That fucking sucked,” he says, and his voice shakes. “Ohh, I hated that. Fuck you. Fuck.”

“That sucked,” Brett agrees, nodding as he tugs Trevor’s ruined shirt up to his chest; James immediately looks away before he can see the mess. “What the fuck happened?”

“The gravelings collapsed the whole building,” Joe says from the door, and he’s gotten some color back in his face. “Dude, it just… _happened,_ we didn’t know what the fuck was going on, it was like everything just came down at the same time and then it just fuckin’ went through Trev’s stomach like nothing.” He closes his eyes for a second, looks haunted. “They looked… like they were mad, you know? Like they were pissed off. Our reaps got out okay but I don’t know if anyone else died…”

“What the fuck do they have to be angry about?” Brett says, sound incredulous and angry at the same time. James keeps his mouth shut. “Jesus Christ, a whole _building?_ We’re gonna have to tell Geoff if that wasn’t in the plans for today, he can let us know what’s happening.”

Joe nods, but he still looks a bit shaken. Trevor moans again, softer now, less anger and more pain now that the rebar’s out and his skin’s begun to heal. Brett pats his shoulder gently, looks over at James. James is blinking too hard, sitting on the floor and trying not to look at all the blood, and he feels a bit like there are bugs crawling all over his skin, anxiety pooling thick in his stomach.

“Joe, James,” Brett says gently, and they both look over at him. “Go home, okay? Joe, grab one of my spare shirts, get the blood off you. Wash off, calm down.”

“Am I allowed to go home?” Trevor asks weakly, eyes closed, and Brett laughs softly at him.

“Absolutely not.” He looks back up, nods his head in their directions. “Seriously. I’ve got this. Just go home and relax. You two look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Worst fucking time for your shitty dad jokes,” James croaks, but obediently stands up on shaking legs. He leans down, gives Trevor a gentle shake of the shoulder as Joe disappears somewhere in the house.

James washes his hands and wrist off in the bathroom, looks up when Joe shows up again in a shirt two sizes too big for him. James would laugh at it if he could, but instead he just takes his hair tie out, twists the back of the shirt up tight against Joe’s waist and ties it so it doesn’t look as ridiculous. He feels shaken, feels like he’s experiencing the world outside of his body all of a sudden.

Trevor’s dozed off on the kitchen floor when they poke their heads back in the kitchen, and Brett just waves them off.

“I’ll keep you updated,” he says, and for the first time, he sounds exhausted. “Get home safe, guys.”

They both nod, and Joe lets out a long breath as soon as they close the door behind them.

“Fuck,” he says, and then laughs shakily. “Holy fuck, dude.”

James mumbles something in return, rubs at his face and then checks his watch. He still has time, but all of a sudden he doesn’t feel up for it. They both start walking, a little heavy in their steps, and James wonders if he should cancel. He doesn’t want to, not in the slightest, and his decision is made when he checks his phone and finds a text from Aleks waiting for him.

_Still on for tonight?_

He looks over at Joe, waits until they’re back on the bus and Joe is distracted before he answers.

_Absolutely :)_

“How’re you feeling?” he asks softly, putting his phone away, and Joe leans forward, buries his face in his hands for a second. All of his shaggy hair’s matted with sweat, and James realizes for the first time that he’s not wearing his hat.

“I’m alright,” Joe mutters. “I think Brett’s right. I think I just need to… to relax and decompress. Holy fuck.”

“Yeah.” James doesn’t have a lot to say to that. They both sit side-by-side on the bus, neither one of them particularly willing to walk any more than they have to. The bus takes a detour, and for a moment James doesn’t know why until he sees the cloud of dust still rising just above the buildings from downtown. Fuck. Right.

“You gonna be okay?” he asks, looking over at Joe, but Joe just shakes his head.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. You?”

James swallows, thinks of the gravelings again.

“Yeah. Same, dude.” He looks out the window, and the bus shudders. “I hope Trev’s okay.”

“He’ll be alright,” Joe says quietly, staring down at his hands. “Brett’ll take care of him, he fuckin’ loves Trevor. That’s why he’s so pissed off, I think.”

James can’t help but huff out a laugh at the idea of Brett feeling love for _anything,_ with how abrasive he can be—but he thinks of the soft way Brett had looked down at their injured friend, and it occurs to him that maybe a lot of things he thought about Brett initially were actually way wrong. He scratches at the corner of his eye, sniffs as he waits for the bus to crawl to a stop a few blocks from his building.

“I’ll see you, Joe,” he says, pats him on the back as he stands, and Joe finally smiles at him.

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

The bus doors creak shut as he hops down to the sidewalk, and James watches it drive off in a puff of black smog. There’s a tremor to his hands that haven’t been there since the early days when he first started out as a grim reaper, and he shoves them hurriedly in his pockets as he sets about walking home, tries to let his mind wander to what he has to cook for dinner rather than anything that happened today.

He forces his mind off it, lets the shower water run scalding hot down his body until his skin turns bright red, until the bathroom fills up with steam thick enough to almost choke him. He tilts his face into the spray, squeezes all the water out of his hair and then stands, naked and awkward, in the cold water still running from the shower.

Fuck.

Could that have been his fault? He thinks back to the blood-red eyes of the graveling in the subway staring at him before it leapt away, thinks of its anger, thinks of how Aleks was supposed to die instead. Was what happened today because of him? He swallows, rubs at the condensation on the mirror and stares at his fake reflection in the mirror. He looks a bit pale, a bit wide-eyed. Up until now he could pretend that things were all going to be okay, but this has put a significant stopper in those plans.

He knows he should stop this. He knows.

Instead he pulls on his jeans, tugs on the black long-sleeved shirt he’d picked up at the thrift store. Again he keeps his hair down, though it drips a bit on his shoulders as he sets about gathering things for dinner. It’s inching closer and closer to the time when Aleks is supposed to show up. He throws some water onto the oven to let boil, pulls up a recipe on his phone and gets to work chopping garlic and tomatoes and the like.

By the time his phone buzzes again, it’s all mostly done. The pasta’s all drained and the sauce is finished, the broccoli steamed and the chicken cooked; his entire apartment smells like an Italian restaurant, and as he wipes his hands off on his jeans he can’t help but feel a bit accomplished despite himself.

_5 minutes out?_

_Nice nice. I’ll let you in at the door_

He still feels that little ball of anxiety in his chest as he turns the stove off, lets everything simmer as he quickly hurries down the stairs, too tripped up to try and take the elevator. He can’t get all the blood out of his head, there when he closes his eyes, the smell of it too sharp in his nose if he thinks too hard. It’s his fault, he’s sure of it, and he’s about ready to turn tail and run and forget everything when he catches sight of Aleks waiting outside the building.

He’s staring up at it, neck craned, and James stops halfway to the door. He has a moment where he can run, has a moment where he can call it all off, but then Aleks looks back down and catches sight of him. He grins, waves a bit at him, and all of James’s reservations head straight out the window.

“Hi,” he says a little breathlessly, when he’s pulled the lobby door open.

“Shit, you smell good,” Aleks says, and then immediately seems to realize what he said because he starts stumbling over his words. “Uh, I mean, you, you smell like food. Good food. Fuck. You smell like good food.”

“I get it,” James says, beaming at him despite himself. Aleks groans, lets his knees bow a little with it.

“Sorry, I’m just,” he gestures around a bit. “Nervous, I guess?”

“Nervous because of lil ol’ me?” James crows, and nods his head towards the staircase while Aleks rolls his eyes at him. “C’mon. I’ve got shit on the stove.”

“You’re cooking shit?” Aleks asks, but follows after him. It feels less like a date and more like a friend coming over for dinner, and James is pretty sure that’s a bad sign and a good sign all wrapped up in one. Every time they interact, it gets more and more natural, and James isn’t sure where that’s going to lead them. He’s not even sure if they should keep this up, but when he looks over at Aleks again, it’s like he forgets immediately. The only thing that’s resonating in his head are Brett’s words from earlier: _I just didn’t take you you for the hopeless romantic type._

 _If you could see me now, Brett,_ he thinks a bit dryly, and opens the door for Aleks, lets him in first. _You’d be fuckin’ amazed._

“Oh, wow,” Aleks says quietly, as James shuts the door behind him. “Dude, it smells fucking amazing in here. What did you make?”

“Just pasta,” James says, but he’s glowing with the praise. Jordan can go fuck himself, always talking shit about James’s cooking in the past. “But thanks for stroking my ego as soon as you walk in the door. It feels great, gives me a boost.”

Aleks snorts, but doesn’t say anything to that.

“Your place is really nice,” he finally says after a moment, looking around. James starts scooping some pasta into bowls, watching out of the corner of his eye as Aleks doesn’t move far, but looks around with interest. James sort of wishes his apartment was more indicative of _him,_ beyond the dumb posters he put up in frames, the DVDs scattered here and there that he bought on a whim.

”What’s this?” Aleks asks curiously, and his thumb and index finger gently pinch the bottom of James’s Post-It, still stuck to his fridge. Oh, fuck. Maybe not.

“Doctor’s appointment,” he says in a rush, and plunks down two bowls at the tiny little table that’s pressed up against the other side of the kitchen bar. Yes, it’s a girly sort of apartment, but damn if it’s not finally coming in handy after all the time he’s spent by himself in it.

Aleks turns at the sound, and James gets another good look at him. Same dark pants, but this time he’s wearing a soft blue shirt, long-sleeved and covering all of his tattoos except for what barely peeks out at the wrist. That’s a damn shame. He looks real good in it, though, and when he looks up, he realizes that Aleks is staring at him, too. James swallows, clears his throat.

“Anyway, bon appetit, or whatever,” he says, and sits down at the table. After a moment, Aleks sits down too. He looks pleased as he takes a bite of James’s dinner, and James can feel that pride from before swelling even stronger in his chest as Aleks takes another bite.

“It’s pretty good,” Aleks says, after a couple more mouthfuls. “You’re pretty good at cooking, dude.”

“Oh, I try,” James tries not to crow as he eats his own forkful. “Also I definitely followed a recipe, and definitely have a lot of spare time, so that all probably helped a little. But please, by all means, continue flattering me. I love it.”

Aleks shakes his head and laughs again, spears some chicken and broccoli. They eat and bullshit, same as they did the other two times, and the shake in James’s hand has vanished completely by the time he’s finishing up the dishes, elbowing Aleks out of the way when he tries to help.

“What kind of host would I be if I made you do dishes?” he says loudly, and flicks water right into Aleks’s face with a spoon; Aleks sputters, wipes at his cheeks furiously.

“ _James!_ I hate shit on my face, dude!”

James beams at him and flicks more water.

“Out of the kitchen, Aleksandr!”

Aleks glares at him, soapy water still dripping from the ridge of his eyebrow, but he scampers away with a shout when James brandishes his wet hands at him again. He practically dives onto the couch as James chases after him, and then he’s caught on his back, scuttling backwards and away.

“Fuck you! Don’t,” he warns, holding up a finger as James holds out his hands threateningly. “Dude, I’m serious. Do not. I will leave.”

James backs away slowly, grinning. “You ain’t gonna leave and you know it.”

“Fuck you,” Aleks repeats, but he doesn’t move from the couch, and James winks at him as he heads back to the kitchen. As soon as the dishes are done he makes his way back to the living room, finds that Aleks is looking through his DVD collection with interest.

“I’m kind of amazed you don’t have any games, dude,” Aleks says, and James shrugs at that; well, it’s true enough. He doesn’t, not anymore. But he’d managed to lie, said that he just played at his friends’ houses whenever he had the chance.

“You see this place?” is what he says in reply. “You think I can afford a brand new XBox with swanky digs like this?”

“Why do you fucking talk like you’re from the 70s,” Aleks says with a wrinkled nose, not looking at him as he continues to scan the movies. James wants to _well, actually_ him, because he’s heard Joe, Asher, and Jakob _all_ say actual phrases from the 70s, and the truth of it is that James is just weird. Instead he shrugs, rests his bare foot on his knee and stretches his arms out across the back of the couch.

“Dunno. Pick a fucking movie, dude.”

Aleks plucks one of the DVDs out and as soon as it’s in the player he’s flopping down next to James. He puts a healthy distance between the two of them, but it’s close enough that James can still feel his warmth, and his thumb almost grazes the top of Aleks’s shoulder. He stares straight ahead, tries to inhale quietly. Okay.

“You chose a shit movie,” he complains, and Aleks rolls his eyes.

“You’re the one who fuckin’ owns it.”

They settle into the movie, James eventually lowering his hands if only because his arms get tired. They both keep up a steady stream of shitty commentary, because neither one of them could ever be pleased by a B-list movie that James is pretty sure the previous occupant only owned because she was a fuckin’ hipster. Still, every time Aleks laughs, it jolts through James like an electric charge.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, when they’re about two-thirds through; the busty female lead has just dramatically kissed her dashing male co-star, and neither one of them had anything to say about that. “You owe me another kiss.”

Aleks sighs, squints at him.

“Do you have any other lines?”

“I’m just saying, you should keep your word here.” James shrugs, looks over at him and notes the way that Aleks doesn’t break their eye contact. “I asked if we could kiss on a second date, you said yes, and yet here I am, not being kissed. Keeping your promise is common courtesy, Aleksandr.”

“You seriously don’t have any other lines,” Aleks repeats, but there’s a grin on his face. “It’s gonna stop working eventually.”

James considers that, tilting his head.

“Does that… does that mean it worked this time?”

“Yeah,” Aleks says, and scoots closer.

When their lips meet this time, it’s still a bit hesitant. James keeps his eyes closed, and judging by the flutter of Aleks’s eyelashes against his cheek, Aleks did the same thing. There’s still a lot they need to learn about each other, but James is a strong believer in practice makes perfect, and as he cups Aleks’s cheek in one hand, he figures he could put a _lot_ of practice into this.

They kiss another couple of times, just a gentle drag of lips. It’s loud, somehow, roaring in James’s ears as he rubs his thumb in circles against Aleks’s cheek, briefly nips at Aleks’s bottom lip just to hear him gasp. Aleks is the one who deepens the kiss, and James inhales sharply at the feeling of his tongue pressing into his mouth, at the way they both instinctively tilt their heads to accommodate. James lifts his other hand and cups the line of Aleks’s jaw, keeps him in place as they slot together, as Aleks shifts on the couch to try and sit more comfortably.

“Can I,” Aleks starts, and the way his lips move against James’s makes his breath stutter. Whatever he wants to ask must fade out, because instead Aleks just lifts his leg and swings it, settles down onto James’s lap before he’s had the time to process that it’s happening. James is already, to his intense embarrassment, sporting half a hard-on, because he has _needs,_ even if he’s dead, but Aleks doesn’t seem to mind. He just sits right down in James’s lap, knees against the couch, and James’s hips jerk up once before he can shove them back down.

Aleks fucking _moans_ at that, and James has to pray for strength.

“Is this too far,” Aleks says against his mouth, and James shakes his head, finds Aleks’s belt loops and hooks his pointer fingers into them. Aleks is cupping his jawline now, they’ve switched around a bit. James can feel his own dick starting to press against the denim of his jeans, and it’s torture. It’s brutal murder.

“No, no, not too far,” James barely manages, and kisses him again.

“Okay,” Aleks says, and when he pulls back a little James tries to follow him. “Okay, here’s the thing. I’m totally into you, dude.”

James huffs a laugh, barely has his eyes open. Aleks looks fucking beautiful, red in the face and lips. “Really?”

“Shut up,” Aleks says, and kisses him again. “Like, stupidly into you.”

There’s a small part of James that’s bursting into hysterics, because Aleks _can’t even see him,_ not really, but the rest of him is screaming to get on with it. His fingers twitch, but he keeps them wrapped around Aleks’s belt loops and just pulls him closer. Aleks tries to say something again but James just kisses it right off his lips, drags them across Aleks’s jaw to press another into his neck.

Aleks jolts, gasps sharply.

“Lucky you,” James mumbles against warm skin, can feel where Aleks is threading his hands into his hair. “I’m, _like, stupidly into you_ , too.”

“Shut up,” Aleks mutters breathlessly, and his hands tighten in James’s hair when James reaches down, lifts up the hem of Aleks’s shirt. They might be moving too quickly here, but holy fuck, James ducks down and presses an open mouthed kiss to the middle of Aleks’s chest, decides all at once that he really doesn’t care. He shifts his hands, finally, cups Aleks’s ass and laughs when Aleks makes another noise.

“Fuck, dude,” he says, and then hisses when James closes his teeth down on one nipple. “ _Fuck_.”

“This is way more than a kiss,” James says against his skin, and shifts again, tilts his head up so that he can catch Aleks’s mouth again. “I’m not complaining, you know, I’m definitely into this, this is great, but I’m just saying—”

“James,” Aleks mumbles, and then grinds his hips down; James moans loudly, completely insults himself and all his goddamn forefathers with the noise that rips out of his chest. “Shut _up_.”

That’s a lot to ask of James Wilson, but he does as he’s told. He has a lot of visuals in his head right now, and he moans softly when Aleks presses down against him again. His dick’s killing him right now, and he wants to relieve some of the pressure, but Aleks’s mouth is far too distracting for any of that. James finally moves his hands to bury them in Aleks’s dark hair, and rolls his hips upwards.

Aleks breaks the kiss and just gasps against his mouth, eyes squeezing shut. James grins, leans his head back against the back of the couch as Aleks chases after him again, presses in close. James runs his fingers up and under Aleks’s shirt, skirts the tips of his fingers against his back until he arches, and then he’s pulling it up over his head, relishing in the soft folds of his stomach. Aleks claws at James’s shirt, too, tugging it up over his head.

There’s a brief moment where James wants to back out; he’s always hated how he looks without a shirt on, had tried really hard to lose all the extra weight he’d gained over the years. But Aleks doesn’t seem to care, because he just presses back up against him and suddenly there’s _skin,_ there’s so much of it that James’s head is spinning. Aleks has started to roll his hips in a continuing motion, one that keeps pressure down hard between James’s legs and he can’t help the moan that crawls out of him again.

“James,” Aleks mumbles into his mouth, “James, lay down. Lay down on the couch.”

At this point, if Aleks asked him to jump out the window he would probably do it. He shifts, tries to keep kissing Aleks and touch him in as many places as possible as he shifts, stretches out underneath him. Aleks just crawls up his body, kisses him again and when James looks up at him, he’s damn near the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.

“How far is too far?” Aleks asks, and he sounds like he’s just run a mile. James considers that for a moment.

“How far you wanna go?”

Aleks kisses him again, just a little peck on the lips, and then he scooches down until he’s sitting on James’s knees, undoing the button and zipper to James’s jeans without any fumbling. His trajectory is clear as day to James, who just swallows hard.

“Oh. That’s how far.”

He can tell by Aleks’s expression that he’s giving James an out, but fuck if he’s going to take it. He tilts his hips up a little, an invitation and a request all in one, and Aleks smirks at him as he leans down and pulls James out of his boxers.

Holy fuck, someone else touching his dick. James had honestly forgotten what it was like, and if he wasn’t already hard before he is now. Aleks’s hand is warm where he wraps it around the base, a little dry but James just moans and arches before Aleks’s arm pins him back down to the couch by his stomach. James just widens his legs a little bit where he can, and grips the arm of the couch in one hand.

The first touch of Aleks’s lips against the head of his dick are like lightning, and James can’t even look for a minute. He just groans low in his chest as Aleks slowly works down, and the heat of his mouth is almost too much, the intense pressure of it trembling in his stomach. James is oversensitive and weak to it, knees shaking on either side of Aleks’s waist as he finally forces his eyes open and stares down his own body at Aleks. James’s dick in his mouth, hair ruffled, cheeks red, and eyes staring up at him before he looks away, clearly embarrassed.

“Fuck,” James breathes, and then hitches sharply when Aleks pulls away again, jerks him a couple times.

“Sorry,” Aleks mutters, and his voice is raw, his lips are swollen. “Out of practice.”

“It’s okay.” James can barely think. “Me too, me too, fuck.”

Aleks’s hand stills on his dick, and for a flare of a moment James wants to beg, but he looks down and sees that Aleks is undoing his own pants, and then he’s crawling up James’s body, and it makes sense. James reaches down between them, and Aleks’s hand is smaller in his but no less determined as they line themselves up.

“If we have a third date,” Aleks mutters, and he moans softly as James takes them both in hand, as they rock together. There’s precome all over both their hands, their dicks, and somehow that’s the most erotic part of all. “If we have a third date, I can try again?”

“We can have a third date,” James says too quickly, and arches as his other hand finds Aleks’s hair; Aleks is barely an inch above his face, supporting himself with an elbow next to James’s ear. “We can have a third date, fuck, _fuck,_ we can do just about anything if it gets your mouth back on my dick, holy shit, Aleks.”

“Deal,” Aleks says, eyes flickering closed. They’ve found their rhythm and they’re working with it, a back-and-forth, a push and pull as the heat settles low in James’s groin. As it flickers and grows, James starts moaning louder, starts kissing at Aleks furiously.

“I’m gonna,” he gasps, and Aleks bites at his lower lip, trails his lips down the slope of James’s jaw. “I’m, fuck, fuck, Aleks—”

“I wanna see,” Aleks says into his ear, and he sounds _wrecked._ “I wanna see, James—”

The heat expands and then suddenly snaps, pours through him like a flood as James arches and comes with a long groan. He can feel the wetness of it as Aleks presses in tight, as both their hands move too fast and come drips down onto the curls at the base of his dick, as Aleks groans softly and hides his face in James’s neck. He can tell when Aleks comes too, because he makes a sudden, high noise and then stills, more wetness slipping down their hands to join the mess on James’s crotch.

It’s the most beautiful sound James has ever heard in his life, and he wants to hear it again.

Just as quickly as it felt like it started, it comes to an end. They’re both panting and riding the waves of the aftershocks, and James can feel himself twitching in their hands, can feel where Aleks twitches too. He collapses down onto James with an _oof_ noise, nuzzles briefly into his neck.

“Oh, you’re a cuddler,” James says, a bit sleepily. “I like that. That’s nice.”

“Shut up,” Aleks grunts, and James can feel the heat of his cheeks against his skin.

“No, I mean it, I’m all about the cuddling, it’s awesome, just—”

“James.” Aleks sits up a little bit, looks at him very pointedly before giving him a quick peck on the lips. “Dude, seriously. Shut up and let me fuckin’, let me bask.”

“I’m basking, too,” James replies immediately, holds his hands up in surrender as he obediently goes silent. They lay there for a bit, and eventually James reaches up, starts carding the fingers of his clean hand gently through the short bristles at the nape of Aleks’s neck. It’s oddly comforting for _him,_ the motion of it, the lethargy, and he doesn’t want it to end even though he knows it’ll have to.

Eventually the credits roll for the movie that neither of them are paying attention to anymore, and James has to acknowledge the mess between his legs. Aleks sits up slowly, sighs as he looks down between them.

“Bathroom?” he asks, and James points the way.

It’s nice, when Aleks comes back with a wet towel for him, already buttoned up and put together again. James wipes himself off and grimaces as he tucks himself back into his jeans, zips himself up. That part, at least, had not been missed.

“Well,” Aleks says, and before he can start shifting awkwardly James jumps up off the couch, hurriedly tosses the rag into his laundry. “I should, uh, I mean. I have to go but, um—”

“There’s no way,” James says immediately, and when Aleks looks at him James just presses in close, kisses him soundly. Aleks makes a muffled noise into his mouth, but doesn’t pull away. “There’s no way it was that bad that you gotta run for the fucking hills.”

Aleks grins against his mouth.

“I have work in the morning, James.”

“So do I,” James replies instantly, but he understands. “Still too early for you to stay the night, huh?”

Aleks chuckles, keeps his hands loosely tangled in the bottom of James’s shirt.

“We still have the third date,” he says slyly, and kisses James again. James wants this to fucking last forever, this little moment with Aleks’s nose pressed against his as they slowly rock back and forth.

“I’m holding you to that,” James warns him, presses another kiss to his lips. He never wants to _stop,_ wants to spend the rest of his afterlife just kissing Aleks, and maybe fucking, depending on where their third date goes. There’s a whole world of possibilities awaiting them, but this moment right now? It’s the one that James wants to remember for as long as he can.

“Third date,” Aleks promises, and then laughs when James nuzzles against his face. “Stop, dude. Stop.”

“Nope,” James says happily, nuzzles harder. “If you gotta leave, I’m walking you downstairs.”

Aleks laughs at him and shoves him, but doesn’t protest otherwise. He lets James lead the way downstairs and he feels like a giggling schoolboy the entire time, can’t stop leaning over to kiss him every couple of seconds until Aleks is telling him to stop with a huge grin on his face. Yet again it’s the feeling of being _alive,_ is this feeling that he can’t put a name to beyond knowing that he wants to chase it, wants to bury himself in it, never wants to let it go.

Fuck, Aleks just makes him _happy._

“It’s your turn,” he says as they step outside; the city is still bustling, “so you better make it good.”

“Well, we already have an idea of what we want to do,” Aleks says dryly, and this time _he’s_ the one to kiss James, just a light press of lips against his before he backs away again. “So maybe same time next week, my place?”

“Earlier than that?” James wheedles, but Aleks laughs at him and does what he always does. He starts to back away, looks happy as can be.

“Maybe,” he says, and waves his goodbye. “And maybe next time _you_ can stay over.”

James can live with that. He swallows hard and then beams at him, waves again. He knows he must look like a sex-mused wreck, but he doesn’t care. He finally leans against the side of his building, breathes a happy little sigh to himself as he looks up at the sky. Holy fuck. He got laid. He totally got laid. He’s gonna get laid _again._

He’s halfway through the lobby when he catches sight of the TV. It’s replaying footage from earlier in the day, and he slows to a stop as he watches the building come crashing down. It didn’t look like a very large one, maybe about three or four stories, but people still scream, and James watches as the headline runs along the screen. _**TWO DEAD, COUNTLESS INJURED IN SUDDEN COLLAPSE.**_

All of a sudden, guilt settles in his chest, makes him turn away and dig for his phone in his pocket.

_Hows Trev?_

He doesn’t text Brett very often, but the reply is prompt anyway.

_He’s fine now. Still here with me._

James fidgets with his phone again, looks back at the television screen. He can’t see Trevor or Joe in any of the footage of people running from the wreckage, and that’s probably a good thing. He can’t see any gravelings either, even if he knows they’re there. One moment ago he’d been on top of the world, but now both shame and guilt are starting to settle where that happiness had been, and he wants them both to go away. He breathes out slowly through his nose, checks the time.

_Okay if i come over?_

He wants to know that Trevor’s okay. He does. But James would be a dirty fucking liar if he tried to act like that was the only reason.

_Sure. Door’s unlocked._

The bus doesn’t run past eight, so he calls up an Uber, sits in the backseat and fiddles with his shirt. He changed it, slipped on a t-shirt and a hoodie, pulled his hair back up. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s rash, and it’s certainly not well-thought out, but he thanks the driver and tips him as he gets out.

If it’s his fault, James needs to face it. He needs to _know_. He already knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that if the gravelings are pissed off, it’s probably at him. He can’t imagine why they would go after his _friends,_ though, and he’s half clinging to that thought. But if this is in fact because of his slip-up, the slip-up he just got a _blowjob_ from, then he’s got to face it.

The doorknob’s been cleaned, along with the steps, and it clicks when he quietly opens the door. He has to look around a little, but the acrid, copper smell of blood is gone and that at least calms him down a bit. He can hear the television playing in another room, and he follows that sound until he pokes his head into what’s clearly a living room.

“Hey,” Brett says quietly, looks over at him from the couch. Trevor’s stretched out on the length of it, clean shirt and boxers, and he’s fast asleep with his head in Brett’s lap. He looks a lot better than he had before; there’s color back in his cheeks, and his breathing’s even and slow. Brett’s running his fingers carefully through his hair, and it’s… it’s oddly intimate. James feels like he’s intruding on something he’s not supposed to.

“Hi,” he replies, tries to keep his voice down. “How is he?”

“Better.” Brett looks down for a moment, then shifts. He reaches out to gently lift the hem of Trevor’s t-shirt, studies his stomach for a moment. It’s the way he ghosts the tips of his fingers over the soft skin where the rod had been that somehow drives home for James just how long they must know each other now, and that feeling of intruding grows. “It’s all healed up now, more or less. Joe was here earlier.”

“That’s good.” James stands awkwardly for a moment until Brett rolls his eyes and jerks his head towards an armchair in the corner. James immediately sits down in it, looks around the living room for a moment. It looks pretty much like what he’d expect from Brett, to be honest, but he notices that near the window Brett has a little shelf of plants not unlike his own. When he squints at them, he realizes that they’re all a bunch of little cacti.

“I talked with Geoff,” Brett says, and Trevor shifts in his lap, mumbles something in his sleep. “He said we’re all going to just have to keep an eye on the gravelings for right now. God, I hate those little fucks,” he adds, a tad bitterly.

James huffs out a laugh.

“I saw the news,” he says, and Brett raises an eyebrow. “It said only two people died. Were they supposed to?”

Brett shrugs. “I’m going to go ahead and assume so. Say what you will about Joe and Trevor, but they’re good at their jobs. Geoff said both of them got to their reaps before the building collapsed.” He sighs, looks down at Trevor with something like fondness. “Fucking idiots.”

It’s now or never. It’s an opening, one that James has to take. But it thickens in his throat, and he almost chokes on it before he can calm down. He has to ask the question. He _has_ to. He forces it out, tries to speak as casually as he can.

”What happens if… if someone misses their appointment?”

Brett looks up at him, and James has a rush of fear before Brett just tilts his head at him.

“What do you mean?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Like,” he says, trails off for a second. “I mean, you know. What if we just didn’t take someone’s soul? And. You know. They just didn’t die?"

To his horror, Brett’s expression immediately darkens, and he squints at James with what looks like suspicion.

“Why? Did that happen?”

“What?” James says quickly, and tries to laugh, tries to brush it off as casually as he can. “No, no, I’m just wondering, that’s all.”

Oh, he’s a fucking idiot. He’s a _fucking_ idiot. He can’t help but hold his breath and pray. Thankfully, after a moment of contemplation, Brett just shakes his head and lets out a quiet chuckle as his shoulders unclench. James watches as he returns to gently petting Trevor’s hair. The look on his face as he stares down at their sleeping companion is a little fond, a little distant.

“Just make sure you don’t ever have to find out,” he says.

James feels nothing but dread as the weight of that answer settles, and he doesn't say anything else about it for the rest of the night.


	8. oh, you make me such a mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW MAN SORRY IT'S OUT SO LATE I WAS SO HURRIED I FORGOT THE AUTHOR'S NOTE anyway. uh. time for things to get spicy. ;)
> 
> thank you to everyone who continues to give this fic a chance! yall make me smile so much, all the time. <3 
> 
> if you'd like, come say hi on [tumblr](http://myriadus.tumblr.com)!

James has no idea what the _fuck_ he’s supposed to do.

He’s been sitting on it for nearly a week, running through the conversation with Brett over and over again in his head, trying to figure out what the fuck he can possibly take out of it. On the one hand, Aleks still looks _fine,_ as far as he knows. He only sees him every couple of days, either for a date or when they do end up going to the dog park. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with him. Granted, James doesn’t know what to _look_ for, but if nothing’s sticking out then would there be a problem?

Maybe it’s a matter of what’ll happen to _James_ if he keeps letting this go. Maybe he’ll get into so much trouble that they’ll toss him into that endless nowhere everyone is so scared of, and then he won’t have anything ever again. He lied, right to Brett’s face. Was that a punishable crime, too? Like how far deep in is he, really? But fuck. If he asks now, he feels like that’ll be suspicious. He _knows_ it’ll be suspicious. He’s stuck up shit’s creek without a paddle, and he’s gonna have to do a fucking doggy paddle to get out.

He flops down onto his bed with a groan, kicks his bare feet a couple of times against the foot of the mattress.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he says out loud, starfishes out as he stares up at the ceiling. He has no fucking idea what he can do that wouldn’t somehow come back to Brett. If he asks anyone such a specific question, it could get back to Brett and then wouldn’t Brett want to _know_? Could he go to one of the other divisions, maybe? Or would that be even shadier?

Now he’s got a date at Aleks’s apartment and he’s got a million thoughts whirling around in his head. Some date he’s going to be. He has to pull his shit together.

He sits up, tugs off his shirt and stalks off to the shower, turns up the heat and stands there under the spray after he’s waddled out of his pants. He glares at the tiles as he lathers up his hair, runs soap across his face and through his beard. He pays special attention between his legs when he gets there, because he’s not an idiot, he’s got a _date_ at Aleks’s _apartment,_ washes all over and then just... stands there until the water runs cold.

What the fuck is he going to _do._

The knob squeaks as he finally turns off the water, stands butt naked in his bathroom as he regards himself in the mirror. Patting his hair dry only takes a couple of seconds; he doesn’t need to trim his beard because he can’t even goddamn see it in the mirror, and honestly he never thought he’d miss his own face so much. He misses _his face,_ misses seeing his beard and his big brown eyes that his mother always loved so much, he misses his nose and his teeth and his hair, fuck. _Fuck._

A sudden and intense rage boils up in the pit of his stomach as James stares at his fake face in his reflection. It roars at him, wants him to punch the mirror as hard as he can until it shatters, but he shoves that feeling down. Instead he turns, deals the wall a kick with his bare foot that sends fire up his leg. It makes him howl in even more anger as he hops around for a second, pain licking at his whole foot. It was a dumb move, for sure, and it definitely didn’t make him feel any better. But he stares down at his angry red toes and sighs, sits down hard on the toilet.

He’s going to be a terrible person to be around if he stays like this all night. He’s not going to be any fun, and Aleks is going to hate him, and maybe that’s for the better. Maybe he ought to call this off, let Aleks live his life without James in it; it’ll keep him safe. He got his one free try, he gets to live his life instead of dying horribly, and now James has to remove himself from it. He needs to stop being so fucking _selfish._

From the living room his phone buzzes, trills out the little ringtone he chose for text messages, and he has to wrap his towel around his waist before tottering awkwardly out to pick it up. There are a few messages waiting for him, and he furrows his brow when he realizes that it’s the group chat.

_**Trevor:** hey brett wants me to let everyone know weird shits going on_

_**Jakob:**??? elaborate please_

_**Asher:** o shit _

_**Trevor:** says gravelings are goin after people without appointments_

James’s heart drops immediately into the pit of his stomach.

_**Lindsey:** what???? _

_**Trevor:** yeah today i guess_

There’s more to it, but James immediately swipes the conversation to the left and deletes it, heart beating wildly in his chest. Then he’s putting his phone back down on the coffee table, face-first, backing away slowly and trying to breathe at he stares at it like it’s going to attack him. That split second of terror nearly sent him reeling to the floor, and he has to breathe in hard past the hand he’s pressed to his mouth. Oh, holy fuck.

Immediately he thinks of the day he and Aleks met, the graveling that had sifted and formed out of the dead body of the man James had mistaken for Aleks. Its beady red eyes, the way it had roared at him as it leapt out of the subway. James has managed to keep that visual in lockdown since, managed to bury it under a motley of other issues that have been arising in his afterlife, but now he wonders how much long he can let that stay hidden. It’s got to still be out there, obviously, but James hadn’t given it much thought out of necessity. Now he’s wondering where it is.

He looks out the window, stares at the lights that are starting to flicker on as the sun sets below the buildings, and he swallows hard as he picks his phone back up again. The group chat is still going, but he sets it to _do not disturb_ and doesn’t read any of it.

This is beyond him now. This had started out as a simple mistake and it’s started to spiral, and he’s not sure what path he’s supposed to be taking here. He cares for Aleks, a lot more than he knows he’s supposed to. And the worst part of it all is that Aleks is just completely innocent in all of this. He thinks he’s just dating some other guy, not an agent of Death itself. That’s not fair on him, and James groans into his hands, one of them still wrapped around his phone.

It’s not fair. None of it is. He remembers what Brett had told him months ago, when he first started. _Sucks, waking up to find out that you still get to experience the world, but you don’t really get to live in it anymore._ He hadn’t known what Brett meant at the time, but he realizes it now. Finally, he brings his phone down again, stares at Aleks’s number, their silly flirting, their plans for the night.

The phone ticks loudly as he types out, _I have to cancel tonight im sorry,_ but before he can finish he gets a message from Aleks too, and he stares at it for a long moment.

_You need directions?_

Yeah, James can’t help but think a tad bitterly. He could really use some direction right now.

He’s not sure what he wants to do here. He stares, instead, at the photo of Aleks next to his name, a sweet little picture that James had snapped of him at the dog park. He’s holding Mishka up next to his face, and he’s smiling so hard his eyes are nearly shut, and James remembers that moment and how happy it’d made him feel. Staring at that picture makes him feel weird, makes him feel unsure, like he has no idea what he wants anymore.

He jumps when his phone starts buzzing in his hand, and he manages to keep his voice steady when he answers.

“What’s up, man?”

“Hey,” Joe says, and he sounds nervous. “Have you seen the group chat?”

“Oh.” Immediately he can feel panic setting in, but he shoves it down and swallows hard. “Yeah, dude, no, I saw, it’s—that’s fucked up.” He’s standing in the middle of his living room, naked but for a towel, and he has to lie through his damn teeth to Joe, _again._ “I guess I’m a little freaked out. Doesn’t that, like, doesn’t that make a graveling? If someone dies when they’re not supposed to?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Joe says, and James can hear him pacing a bit, can picture him running his hands through all of his curls, shoving his hat up with anxiety. “Dude, we thought that building was like… I dunno, a freak of nature but Brett thinks… shit, now he really thinks maybe that the gravelings did it on purpose?”

That takes James by surprise, and he turns around to stare at nothing, really, eyebrows coming together.

“Why would they be trying to kill people outside of appointments? I didn’t think they were even that smart.”

“Oh, they’re fucking smart,” Joe laughs, and it would sound bitter on anyone else. “Dude, I dunno. Maybe the building was on purpose.”

“Why would…” James trails off for a moment, trying to think. There are a lot of thoughts whirling through his head, and none of them are nice, and all of them are screaming at him that he’s fucking _selfish._ Joe nearly got hurt, Trevor _did,_ and now gravelings are attacking more innocent people. “I mean, why would they do that?”

“I mean, when—” Joe starts, but James can hear a door closing, can hear shuffling in the background. “Shit. Well. I dunno, man. Trev’s back, are you coming over tonight?”

His heart leaps.

“Nah,” he says too quickly. “Nah, I’m. I’m tired, man. I’m probably just gonna stay in.”

“Oh,” Joe says, and he almost sounds disappointed. “Alright, well, I guess we’ll see you tomorrow, then. Stay safe, yeah?”

“It’s a dangerous world out there,” James jokes despite himself, and finally Joe laughs for real.

“Ain’t that the truth, brother.”

There’s another text waiting for him when he ends the call, and this time it’s from Brett. He sees the name and there’s a moment where the ground swoops out from underneath him, but for Brett it’s… actually pretty sweet.

_Shit’s getting real out there. Be careful and let me know if anything fucked up happens._

This is more communication in half an hour than James sometimes gets in a week, and he sighs as he switches the conversations and types out a quick response.

_Can do boss._

The couch puffs as he sits down hard on it, staring down at his phone with a knot working itself into existence in his throat. He’s still so new to this world that there’s no manual for, that he’s been tossed into with absolutely no resources except for the others. And he can’t _ask_ them about it now, because he’s dug himself such a deep hole that he can barely see the edges. James is… not the best problem solver in the world, but this seems like it’s beyond the scope of his understanding.

But then he thinks of the feeling of _shame_ ; he lied to Brett, and he got Trevor hurt, and Joe’s nerves are shot whenever gravelings are involved now. Owning up to all of it would be the best course of action but he’s still so _new,_ and he still has no idea what exactly it is he’s _done._ He stares down at his phone, taps it hard against the pads of his fingers as he thinks hard. What would happen to him? If he came clean, explained the whole situation? And that makes the shame worse. Oh, yeah, sure, he missed an appointment and then started _dating the person he was supposed to kill._ The mockery of it, Jesus.

There’s a fear there, too. Fear of what’ll happen, fear of the reaction. Fear of the way that his friends will stare at him, at the way they’ll judge him, fear at what Brett will do when he finds out. It’s been a week but James still remembers the look that had crossed over his face when James had suggested missing an appointment, and while he knows Brett’s anger if he finds out James _lied_ will be worse, now with this graveling fiasco approaching it is going to be bad.

He has to take responsibility, and he knows that. Fuck.

He needs to see Aleks. He needs to see him for this third date, and maybe then he’ll have his answer for what to do, because right now he’s totally lost. He switches conversations again, stares down at Aleks’s text.

_Think i remember but gimme an refresher anyway._

He can’t play the long haul, and there’s a good part of him that knows that. But he’s never been known for making the best decisions.

Aleks sends him directions while he gets dressed, hangs his towel back up on the door. Maybe more out of habit from every other day, or maybe out of nerves, he pulls his hair up instead of letting it hang down. He stares in the mirror again, touches his own face as his reflection does the same. He can see the tension in his own shoulders, the worry that’s creasing his forehead. He rubs his hands together, mostly to try to calm himself, lets the friction and the sound of it try to amp himself up in a different way.

“Okay,” he says out loud. “Okay. Fuck. Alright.”

He takes the stairs rather than the elevator, goes down them quick until his heartbeat’s racing from more than just nerves. James is hoping no one sees him on the walk to Aleks’s building, since that’ll kill his alibi with Joe completely, but he keeps his head down and his hood up and no one offers him so much as a passing glance. Afternoon shift is definitely done by now, or at least, most of them should be, and his crew tend to go to bed relatively early.

It’s as he’s heading down the street that he hears it: skittering.

Immediately he whirls around, catches sight of something leaping up into the trees, then bounding with clawed hands onto the brick of a building just a few down from Aleks’s before it scurries up. James hurries forward, mutters his apologies to the people he shoves past as he follows its path. It's peering into windows, but the graveling seems to stop and consider. It gives a thoughtful sniff and then it turns, makes eye contact with James. As soon as it sees him it hisses wildly, the bristles on its back standing straight up.

“Fuck off,” James says out loud, ignoring the weird looks he gets from the people around him. It hisses at him again, and then jumps off the building. It lands neatly on the sidewalk and James chases after it, but he loses sight of it almost instantly. It’s too small, and the sidewalk is too crowded, and he curses when he realizes he’s lost it. He swears out loud, punching the air downwards in fury.

“...uh. James?”

He whirls around immediately, catches sight of Aleks standing on the steps that lead into his building. He’s looking at him with a bit of a shocked expression on his face, one hand on the bannister, and James has to clear his throat. He must’ve been waiting for James to show up.

“...spider,” he says lamely after a couple seconds. “I hate them. Sorry, I probably look like I broke out from the crazy house.”

“A little,” Aleks says, and he sounds unsure. James barely has a second to come up with more of a defense for himself when Aleks shrugs it off, and James can barely catch the wince that flickers across his face.

“You okay?” he asks, alarmed, thinking of the graveling instantly, but Aleks just shrugs his shoulders.

“Yeah, no, I’m okay. Sorry. I’ve got a headache,” he says, rubs gently at the bridge of his own nose with the tips of his fingers on both hands. “Sly made me come in at like, buttfuck o’clock to prep for some new game release tomorrow, I’ve been up all fucking day.”

“Oh. Well. I can help with that. Here—”

It’s a bit of a chance, but James hops up onto the steps to press his lips against Aleks’s temple. Aleks sways with it, but he rewards James with his endearing little puff, swats at him. James grins against his skin and pulls away, ducks his head to try and look Aleks in the eye. Aleks tilts his head after a moment, makes that eye contact with him. He does look tired as fuck, but there’s nothing else wrong with him. Pale as usual except for the bit of color in his cheeks from when James had kissed him, pretty eyelashes, dark eyes alight and looking at him with total clarity.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, trying not to sound concerned.

“Other than being fucking exhausted, yeah, I’m good.” Aleks shrugs his shoulders, but finally smiles at him for real, and it sends James’s heart soaring. “Dude, quit being like a, a mother hen. That’s not like you.”

“Excuse you,” James says, puffing him. “We’re on a _date._ I’m gonna mother hen all I damn well please.”

“Whatever,” Aleks says, but it doesn’t sound very sincere. He’s still smiling, and he nods his head up at the apartment building. “You coming up or what? I’ve been slaving over a hot stove waiting for you to show up.”

He trails after Aleks up seven flights of stairs—”the fucking elevator broke this morning, it’s been a pain in the ass,” Aleks tells him, wrinkling his nose as he hauls himself up the steps. James follows until Aleks reaches a door near the end of the hallway. James isn’t sure what he expects from _slaving over a hot stove_ but Aleks opens the door to his apartment and they’re immediately greeted with barking and the sound of clicking nails. James has to laugh at the familiarity of it.

“Mishka,” Aleks says, sounding appropriately chastising, and then says something that’s presumably in Russian. She had been darting around their feet and barking happily, but obediently sits down at the sound of Aleks’s voice. “Good girl.” Her tail thumps against the tiles of the kitchen and she grins her doofy little dog smile. James has to crouch down and rub his hands across her face, flopping her ears around as she pants at him.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” he coos, and she licks his hand happily.

“Yeah, you here for me or her?” Aleks jokes, and he’s rummaging around in the kitchen; things are clattering in the cabinets, and James gets a distinct whiff of something savory. “Go sit down. I don’t have a table but we can eat on the couch.”

James scrunches up Mishka’s face and kisses her cold, wet nose, looks up pleadingly.

“Can— can she come?”

He can hear Aleks sighing.

“Yeah, yeah. She can go on the couch.”

James makes a few kissing noises and Mishka follows after him; James takes a quick look around. Aleks has a nice apartment, very nice. It’s a little less open than James’s, though to be fair James never really decorated his in a way that really expressed himself. Aleks has actual consoles, and a computer tucked away in the corner, and as James flops down on the couch he can catch some of the music that Aleks has stacked up on a little CD tower. Not bad.

He looks up as Aleks scoots between the couch and the coffee table and plunks down two large bowls stuffed to the top with… fucking Chinese food. Orange chicken and broccoli and pork fried rice, steaming and smelling absolutely, horrendously delicious.

“Man,” James says, looking at him in disbelief, “you are so full of shit. Slaving over the stove my goddamn ass.”

Aleks grins at him even as he’s gesturing at their food, trying to seem petulant. “I don’t cook! I don’t cook. Someone made this over a stove, it just, it wasn’t me. Eat your fucking take-out, dude.”

“I spend all my goddamn afternoon chopping onions ‘til I cry and you order fucking take-out, I cannot believe this,” James says, leaning forward with Mishka on his lap so he can grab his bowl; Aleks clicks at her and she jumps off the couch but hovers nearby, waiting for scraps that might fall.

“I fed you, go on,” Aleks says, and clicks again as he points towards the kitchen. She immediately hurries off in that direction, and Aleks shakes his head at her as he digs into his bowl. James watches him for a moment, but he still seems fine, and finally he looks at his own bowl. It smells really good, and it reminds him of his first night at Joe and Trevor’s. That brings back the whole shit situation he’s found himself in, the reason he’s even sitting on this couch in the first place.

“My friend Dan said there was some kind of accident on his way to work today,” Aleks says, swallowing a mouthful of food. James looks over at him a bit too sharply. “He works with us, too. Said it was right down the street from our store while we were setting up all that new shit. How fucked up is that?”

James is silent for a moment.

“S’fucked up,” he finally settles on, eats another mouthful. “Like the subway?”

“Mmm.” Aleks eats a mouthful of rice. “Well, anyway, that was my icebreaker. Your turn.”

James snorts despite himself, nearly sends his own rice down the wrong pipe. He coughs a couple of times, beats at his chest until he can dislodge the chunk of food. Aleks is looking at him with a bit of a twisted expression, but it gives way to laughter as soon as it’s clear James is alright. Of course, James would be alright no matter which damn pipe the rice went down, but at least he can pretend for one moment that he’s completely normal. He sighs, takes a deep drink from the can of soda that Aleks had brought over as well.

“Are we doing super fucked up shit that happened to us recently for ice breakers?” James says, and Aleks shrugs his shoulders.

“Dude, I dunno. Come up with something, or else I’ll put another shitty movie in and we can make out. I’m all for the making out, for the record,” he adds, and James laughs out loud.

“Is romance dead already?” he asks, scooping up a huge mouthful of food, and Aleks makes another, weirder face at him. “We did more than make out, Aleksandr.”

“Yeah. You tell me, you feel wooed?”

“Eww, dude. Stop making that face, it’s gross. Stop. What is that?” The face intensifies, twisting Aleks’s handsome face into something grotesque, and James finally makes a face right back at him. “You’re fucking weird. Stop it.”

Aleks makes no motion to change his expression, but they’re both startled out of their goofing off by a loud tapping on the window. Immediately Aleks groans, almost slams his bowl down on the coffee table as he walks towards the offending window. James, who is well aware that they’re on the seventh floor, stares.

“Uh,” he says slowly, “what the hell is that?”

“Fucking birds,” Aleks mutters, and lifts the window up, shouts “fuck off!” loudly at the bird that’s perched there. It immediately takes off, and James watches as Aleks wrinkles his nose, stares out the window with his body half leaning out of it. “They, I dunno, I guess they made a nest around here and they’re a fucking— they’re annoying as fuck, you know? They keep tapping on my goddamn window.”

“Oh.” James shifts, confused and awkward as Aleks comes back in, slams the window shut. He’s real irritated about it, and it’s clear in his expression as he come to sit back down. “That’s really weird, dude. You sure you’re feeling alright?”

Aleks rubs between his eyes again, sighing.

“Sorry, sorry. I’ve just been up all day.” He sighs, rests his head on the back of the couch and grins tiredly over at James. “Probably a real shitty date.”

“Nah,” James says immediately, shaking his head. “We’re all allowed bad moods, man. I was in a pretty shitty mood until I got here, but your stupid face or whatever made me feel better.”

“Gross,” Aleks says, but he’s laughing a little, and he reaches out to give James’s arm a little swat. “What, you fuckin’ like me or something?”

“Something like that, probably,” James agrees, and spears a chunk of orange chicken to eat. “I can’t imagine why, though. When you do shit like tell me you cooked and then serve me fuckin’ take-out.”

He can see that Aleks’s cheeks have gone a little pink, and he eats more of his food, pleased. They sit and watch another shit movie, this one that they pulled up from Netflix, and when they’re all done eating Aleks elbows James out of the way and does the dishes himself. James is content to sprawl out on his back and listen to the sound of running water, scratches Mishka behind her ears where she’s sitting on the floor next to the couch.

When the air shifts above him, he cracks an eye open to find that Aleks is leaning over him, and James can’t help the smile that spreads across his face when Aleks kisses him lightly.

“I’m proud of you,” Aleks mutters against his mouth, “you went, like, this whole time without telling me I owed you a kiss.”

“Mmm, that’s because you _don’t_ owe me a kiss,” James hums, tilts his head up and tries to drag Aleks onto the couch by his belt loops. “You owe me a blowjob, if I remember.”

Aleks laughs at him, gleeful little noise as he sits down on James’s waist, as he leans in to kiss him again. James runs his hands through Aleks’s hair, from where it’s sticking up at his forehead all the way down to the nape of his neck, and he uses that to pull him in close, draw a breathy little moan out of his chest when he kisses him soundly.

James likes this. He likes Aleks sitting on top of him on a couch, making out with him, scratching gently at his hair. He likes the solid weight of him as Aleks rests on him, but he wants _more._ His hands slip forward until he’s cupping Aleks’s jaw instead, and when Aleks opens his eyes to stare down at him James runs the pad of his thumb along Aleks’s lower lip. It drags slightly with the motion of it, and James has to bite down a groan.

“So,” he says, and Aleks blinks at him. “Where do we stand here?”

“We’re laying down.”

James responds to that one with a hard slap against Aleks’s ass before he’s quite considered it. To his surprise Aleks immediately jerks forward and makes an obscene noise, a breathless little yelp that sets fire low in James’s belly. Oh. _Oh._ He hadn’t been expecting that at all, and as Aleks starts to go red with what’s likely embarrassment, James gives him a cheeky grin to hid his arousal.

“You’re into that,” he says in glee; Aleks glares at him. “I’m filing that way for future reference.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Aleks mumbles, and shifts on top of him again. James switches tactics, trails his fingers from where they’d still been resting against Aleks’s ass to cup him between his legs. He’s not quite hard yet, but James can feel him through his jeans and Aleks lets out a long sigh through his nose, eyes flickering shut.

“What I was asking,” James says, and tries to pitch his voice lower. It must work, because Aleks swallows. “What I was asking was if we were gonna stay out here on the couch or if you had other plans. I, for one, have other plans.”

“Do those plans involve my bed?” Aleks asks, and his voice wavers a little.

“They do.”

“Then we’re on pretty equal ground.”

There’s a grin on James’s face that he can’t hide, because he understands the implications of what Aleks is telling him. Aleks arches his back and sighs when James rubs at him again, uses the heel to dig in a little and get him to moan. He watches as Aleks spreads his legs a little farther apart to accommodate for James’s hand, lips parting and lashes fluttering where his eyes have closed.

James chuckles a little breathlessly, tilts his hips up.

“We’re still on the couch, Aleks.”

Aleks hums at him, hips rolling just a little bit into James’s hand, but he nods his head and takes a deep breath in response. He eyes open again and when they make that contact, when their gazes meet, they’re both moving. James lurches up to thread his fingers into the short bristles of Aleks’s hair again, presses a hard kiss to his mouth that Aleks returns immediately. They nearly tumble to the ground, still unused to each other and how they move, but James wraps an arm tight around Aleks’s thin waist to keep him upright and then they’re kissing again.

“Just—” Aleks says against his mouth, starts pulling him across the living room, and James absolutely follows. “This way, come on.”

James is happy to let Aleks pull him wherever he wants, honestly. Aleks is already tugging his hoodie off while they kiss and James does the same, tries to one-hand his socks off and tosses them… somewhere, he doesn’t know. It’s probably super rude to throw your socks around your maybe-boyfriend’s living room but right now James could not be paid to care.

The door shuts behind them, presumably to keep Mishka out, and then Aleks is practically dragging him across the room by his jeans. James follows like an obedient puppy, pulling his own shirt over his head as he does so. They’re still clothed from the waist down by the time that they hit the bed, and the mattress bounces a little underneath them as they toppled onto it.

James relishes again in that feeling of skin against skin. He had missed it, missed the connection of this, of sex, of _romance,_ as stupid and cliche as it sounds. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to grind his hips down, to bask in the sound it wrings out of a bed partner. Aleks is spread out underneath him and James leans down immediately, kisses him deeply enough that Aleks’s back leaves the bed as he arches into it.

“Holy shit,” Aleks breathes, when they break apart again. “Holy shit, dude.”

“That’s all you have to say?” James says, pretending to be offended as he scoots down, and his hands are shaking a little bit as he undoes the button and zip of Aleks’s jeans, as he breathes a wet patch against Aleks’s cock through all the material. They’re both already breathing too hard, and there’s a flush trailing from Aleks’s cheeks down to his chest when he looks down and sees what James is planning. If he does have anything else to say, he doesn’t say it; he just inhales too sharply when James pulls his jeans down to his thighs.

Aleks wasn’t hard before but he is now; James mouths at him through his boxers and Aleks _moans,_ slumps back down against the pillows and covers his eyes with his arm. Maybe he was the one who owed _James_ the blowjob, but that sure as fuck wasn’t what was about to happen now. James hasn’t given head in a hot minute but he remembers the feel of it, the taste, and he nuzzles between Aleks’s thighs, presses kiss after kiss against the hot skin there. It’s a long, slow process of teasing until he finally, _finally_ pulls a soft “ _please_ ” from the body underneath him.

 _There we go_ , he thinks, and takes the elastic of Aleks’s boxers in his hands.

“This is not what I expected to happen when I dragged you into my bedroom,” Aleks says weakly, from somewhere at the head of the bed, and James watches his stomach tense as he drags Aleks’s cock out of his boxers. “Holy fuck.”

“What did you think was gonna happen?” James says, laughter in his voice, and when he presses a kiss to the swollen head Aleks moans loudly, cants his hips up a little to encourage James into more.

“That I’d be blowing _you,_ ” he breathes, and James lets his laughter blow across Aleks’s dick.

“I mean, I’d be happy about that.”

Words kind of fade for a minute though, when James actually gets his mouth on Aleks’s dick. Aleks shudders, a full-body motion as he starts pawing at the sheets above his head, and it seems like he’s trying to bend his legs to better accommodate for where James is half-lying down. James has his legs pinned, though, and so he just struggles for a second before letting out a breathy whine again.

He doesn’t want to get Aleks off so much as he wants to make him writhe, but it’s also a case of James haven’t actually had a dick in his mouth for a _long_ time. He barely gets Aleks halfway down before he chokes, and Aleks must be into that because he moans again, louder than before. James has to wrap his hand around the base of him, work him a couple of times before he pulls off. It leaves a string of spit and precome behind and he wrinkles his nose at it, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sorry,” James says, and he’s startled at how hoarse his voice is. Even so, he echoes Aleks’s words from the last time. “Out of practice.”

“Just fuckin’ come up here,” Aleks says weakly, and James crawls up, hovers over him and grins when he catches sight of him. Aleks is all ruffled and flushed, sweat beading on his brow and his eyes are looking up at James with so much quiet adoration and surprise. James shifts, goes down onto his forearms so that he’s hovering over him a little, and Aleks shakes his head a bit. “Dude.”

“Such sexy bedroom talk,” James teases, and Aleks huffs at him. “Sorry. No jokes. Right.”

He means to be silly, means to joke and prod and tease but the way that Aleks is looking at him gives him a moment to pause. Maybe Aleks isn’t aware of it, or maybe he is, but there’s something there in his gaze that’s… intimate. It feels intimate. James has to take a breath, has to lean forward and slot their noses together so he can just breathe for a second.

“Uh,” he says eloquently, “how… how far, then?”

Aleks must not care about the taste of dick in James’s mouth because his hands cup his face, bring James down for a kiss. It’s nice, and it’s soft, and… James would call it loving, in any other situation. That gives him the answer he needs, gives him what he wanted to know, so he groans gently into Aleks’s mouth and pulls back again, starts undoing his belt and his jeans.

From underneath him Aleks sits up, tugs the rest of his clothes down and tosses them to the floor, rummages around in his side table for a second before he practically plasters himself against James’s chest. Again the feeling of hot skin and that contact runs James over like a truck and he moans, hooks his arm around Aleks’s waist to pull him closer. They’re both naked, both panting and sweaty and Aleks’s hands find James’s hair, try to tug at the tie.

“No,” James says quickly, and before Aleks can look properly upset about it he clarifies. “No, trust me, it’s—if we’re gonna, you know, if we’re gonna do _that,_ you’re gonna want it up.”

Aleks makes a face at him, but his fingers are still trying to card through all of James’s thick hair to take it out of the bun, and James realizes all at once what that means.

”Do you— do you have a thing for my hair?” Aleks is quiet, and James gasps theatrically. “You _do!_ You have a thing for my hair!”

“Shut up.”

“It’s gonna get all up in your mouth,” James warns, despite his smile, and Aleks sighs at him. “Seriously, all up in there, you’re gonna hack a furball if we’re doing the dirty and I’m on top with my hair down— _Jesus!_ ”

Aleks must have muscles that James wasn’t aware of because he suddenly twists them both, shoves James down onto the bed with a yelp and then kisses him breathless. And okay, maybe it would’ve been a much more cushioned landing if his hair _had_ been down, instead of the bun that hurts his head a little bit when he hits the pillows, but all of that just breezes right on by as James stares up at Aleks, startled.

“Well,” Aleks says, and presses the bottle of lube he’d taken from the side table into James’s palm, “then maybe next time we’re gonna change it up and you _won’t_ be on top. Yeah?”

All at once James gets a rush of visuals, like an old film with too many strips and he shudders. He’s never much bottomed before but he could get used to it, could get used to Aleks fingering him open and then pressing into him and holy _fuck,_ the thought of all that makes his entire body go hot. It’s not for today, though; Aleks kisses him again and grinds down, and when his bare ass runs over James’s length every other thought flies out the window.

“Yeah,” James breathes, and pops open the bottle, squirts cold lube onto his fingers.

It’s a fantastic view, from down below. He trails his wet fingers up the back of Aleks’s thighs just to watch him gasp and shiver, watch his lips part and his tongue flash out to wet them again. James can feel his heart thudding wildly in his chest and when he presses a finger against Aleks’s entrance, where he’s burning hot and tensed up, it’s like his pulse doubles its speed. The sound he makes when James slowly pushes in is even better, a little _pop_ of breath, a _keh_ sound, before he takes another breath in. James feels like he’s staring at a priceless artifact, that he gets to watch this up close and beautiful.

“You have,” Aleks starts, and then moans when James presses his finger in all the way to the last knuckle, “you have really, your hands are fuckin’, they’re nice. You have nice hands.”

“Thanks,” James says, slowly draws his finger out and presses two in instead; he can feel Aleks stretching around him, and Aleks makes that noise again, his whole chest rising with that and with the motion of James’s fingers. “You have a nice everything, basically.”

“That’s ‘cause you’ve—” Aleks’s breath hitches. “You’ve got two fingers in my ass. Flatterer.”

James hums at that, and starts up a steady rhythm with just two fingers until Aleks is shaking. Inside he’s burning up, and the clench of it around his fingers makes James realize that they’re actually doing this, they’re going to fuck, he’s going to get laid properly and then, God, he doesn’t even know what. He just scissors Aleks once, just to hear the response, the gasp and the whine, adds a third when Aleks grits out that he can take it.

There’s a bit of a pull when he pulls his fingers out again, Aleks bearing down hard on him before he shifts a bit like he’s searching. James swallows hard, stares up at him before there’s a change, before he’s rubbing against something a little different and Aleks gasps and jerks, a line of precome trailing down the length of his cock. It drips down onto James’s stomach, onto where he’s been making a hot mess of himself too, and that’s _obscene,_ it makes his heart race. He rubs at that spot until all of Aleks is shaking, until he’s moaning and he’s got a look on his face like he could cry. Holy shit, it’s almost _too much._

He could lay there all night, probably, just fingering Aleks open and watching the view. Aleks has other plans, plans that James is happy to go along with. “Let me,” he starts, swallows, “let me lay down. Come on.”

James takes his fingers out and rolls them over, wipes his fingers on the bedsheets while Aleks is preoccupied and then they’re kissing again. They’re naked and sweaty and there’s a mess of precome that slides wet and gross between their stomachs but James couldn’t care less, because it’s perfect, the entire moment, the entire _night_ has been perfect from the moment he walked in the damn door.

“Here,” Aleks mutters hoarsely, and half-tosses a condom at him. That almost makes him laugh, shoves him right back into reality because neither one of them really have to worry about that in the long run, but he still tears it open with his teeth, still rolls it down his cock without protest. The extra attention to his dick almost makes him cry out, because it’s been well and neglected, but he just lets it out with a hiss through his teeth.

There’s a weird moment of quiet between the two of them when James shimmies down, wraps one hand around the back of Aleks’s knee to lift him up a bit. Maybe it’s because neither of them had expected to end up here, wrapped up so tight in body and lives that James isn’t sure he wants the distinction to be found. He’s dead, yes, but in this moment he feels more alive than he ever had before that power line changed everything, before souls and gravelings and beautiful boys with dark eyes and squinty smiles.

“Fuck,” James says against Aleks’s mouth, and Aleks wraps an arm around his shoulders, presses a kiss to the corner of his lips.

When he pushes it at last, one hand wrapped around the base of his dick to guide himself, it’s not like things click into place immediately. It’s not perfect and seamless; they have to stop because James forgot to add extra lube, and it takes time for them to get the correct angle, but God, fuck, when they _do_ find it _._ James’s hips finally press flush against Aleks’s ass, and then they just stay there in that moment, breathing each other’s air, gasping wetly through one, two, three kisses. He feels like he’s drowning in all of Aleks’s heat and tightness, and he finally has to bury his face in Aleks’s sweaty neck. It smells like musk, like sex, like _Aleks,_ he’s getting drunk off it as he waits for Aleks to give him the okay to move.

Finally Aleks lets out a shuddering, thin breath, and his fingers scratch at the stray hairs that have come undone from James’s bun.

“I’m, I’m good,” he says, and James feels the motion of it against the side of his head. “Move. Move, James.”

He’s not sure he can, for a second. He feels overwhelmed, and to his horror there are tears budding in the corner of his eyes, but he clears his throat against them, pulls back. His cock drags against Aleks’s insides and they both moan loudly into the quiet, thick air of the room. When he pushes back in, it takes all the air right out of Aleks’s lungs, and James can feel the bite of his fingernails in his shoulderblades.

After that, it’s over. James finds a rhythm and uses it, hips moving practically of their own accord as he fucks Aleks deep and fast. It could be Heaven, James doesn’t know. This could be his lights, because it feels all too perfect with the way that Aleks gasps and whines underneath him, the lust that’s curling thick and heavy in the base of James’s stomach. He could never leave this bed and he’d be happy, rutting like a fucking animal while biting at Aleks’s neck and breathing way too hard. His heart’s pounding too hard in his chest, and he lifts his head at last to look.

“You gotta,” James chokes out, shifts his hips and hopes that Aleks understands, “babe, you gotta, gotta help me, where—”

Aleks must get it; he shifts, gasps at the endearment that slipped unbidden from James’s lips but he moves, and his thin hands find James’s hips, guide briefly. James knows when he finally hits Aleks’s prostate again because he gasps and then jerks too sharply, falls back against the sheets with his mouth open and his eyes clenched tightly shut.

“There?” James asks breathlessly, starts pounding in at that angle, and Aleks whines loudly. “Right there? That’s where you want it?”

“Yes,” Aleks murmurs, barely even a sound, and his panting start to match James’s thrusts. “Yes, yes, yes, _yes,_ fuckfuckfuck, James, motherfuck—” His voice pitches even higher as James works at him, as the two of them move together in a push-and-pull rhythm that has James’s head spinning.

All of Aleks’s words dissolve into simple noises, little _ah’s_ that bounce off the walls as they ride the feeling together. James is still breathing too hard, sharp little grunts and whimpers that he can’t help. He can feel the orgasm building, a rubber band starting to rip under the pressure. They’re tangled up together, Aleks’s legs on either side of James’s waist as they move together, and James starts to drag his lips against whatever skin he can reach, presses kiss after kiss there, nips lightly with his teeth as Aleks bears down on him and gasps.

“Oh,” Aleks says suddenly, wet in James’s ear, and he’s scrabbling suddenly, nails scratching against James’s back. “Oh, oh fuck, ah, _ah,_ James—”

“Yes,” James can barely reply, “yes, yes, Aleks, yeah, come on, _come on_ —”

Aleks _chokes,_ and those breathy little _ah_ sounds suddenly pitch high into a long whine; James’s vision goes white as Aleks clamps around him and _comes,_ pulses of tightness around his dick that have James seeing stars. James wrenches his head back just to catch the expression of bliss on Aleks’s face, and he looks enraptured with his mouth open and sharp, trembling whimpers tumbling past his lips as he comes. James can feel it against their stomachs, where they’re sliding together, and the thick smell of _sex_ hits him.

It’s enough to get James there, too. He lets it rush over him like a wave, lets the rubber band snap as his orgasm hits him hard. He shakes through it, hands struggling to do anything other than twist into the sheets and hold on for dear life. Aleks is still under him, still coming, every muscle solid and tense before he finally feels Aleks go lax underneath him.

The afterglow slowly rolls over both of them as the pulses and aftershocks fade. James doesn’t want to pull out, not just yet, but he shifts so that Aleks can plant his feet down on the mattress again, and Aleks sighs weakly, eyes still shut. It’s… it’s a beautiful moment, one that James wraps up tight and makes sure to save forever in his memory. Sweaty and naked, come all over Aleks’s stomach, the air thick and the both of them smelling of each other.

James _never_ wants to let go of this moment. He wants to hold on to it for as long as he can.

“Fuck,” Aleks finally breathes, and laughs softly. James immediately starts to nuzzle against the side of his face, beaming. “Fuck, man. That was out of practice?”

James almost damn trills he’s so fucking happy, nuzzling hard enough that Aleks laughs at him. They’re just laying there for a while, and they’re basking, until finally James finds it in himself to slowly pull out. It’s definitely been a minute since he’s tied off a condom, and he has to fumble with it a bit, but then he’s waddling off towards the bathroom when Aleks points the way.

Aleks is laying sprawled out on the bed when he comes back, one arm thrown just above his head, and the other rested just a little past his groin. He looks happy as can be, a vague smile on his face, and he doesn’t even open his eyes when James wipes him down with a warm, wet washcloth.

“I still owe you a blowjob, you know,” Aleks says sleepily, when James has come back from throwing the rag in what he assumes is the laundry.

James snorts at him, carefully crawls into the bed. He’s still buckass naked, but somehow he figures that Aleks isn’t going to mind. Sure enough Aleks rolls over immediately, presses himself as tightly as he can against James’s chest. He’s warm all over, a bit sticky with dried sweat but no less welcome, and James can’t help but wrap his arms around him. He does have more tattoos than James had initially thought; one along the left side of his ribs, an eagle on his chest. He almost laughs.

“Well,” he says quietly, and finally reaches up to tug his hair out, “I’ll just call a raincheck on that.”

They’re quiet for a while after, enough so that James thinks Aleks might have actually gone to sleep. Instead he hears a soft voice, half-asleep, and he smiles.

“Stay here for the night?”

“I have work early in the morning,” James warns quietly, tucks Aleks’s head under his chin. “So. Don’t freak out when I’m not here. Okay? I promise I’m not gonna run screaming.”

He gets a laugh for that one, and he can feel as Aleks slowly dozes off, as sleep overtakes him and his breathing slows into something soft and rhythmic. James stays up for just a little while, running his hands through Aleks’s hair over and over again. Eventually he detaches himself a little bit and Aleks moves with it in his sleep, barely a crease between his eyebrows.

James stares at him for a long moment, stares at him as moonlight seeps in through the blinds and illuminates them and the sheets. He stares at Aleks, stares at all of him, realizes that he has his answer. It should fill him with happiness, with longing for the days ahead, but instead he can feel the anxiety threatening to creep up, threatening him with everything it has. It crawls like a graveling, settles in his throat as he swallows hard and rubs his thumb lightly against Aleks’s cheek.

He’s in love.

“Fuck,” he says quietly to himself, and finally settles in for sleep.


	9. it's hard, letting go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyyyyyyy time for shit to get reaaaal!!!! hope yall enjoy :> and thank you as always!!! ♥
> 
> come say hi on [tumblr](http://myriadus.tumblr.com)!

He wakes up slow, like it’s a dream. His alarm’s set for 6:30 in the morning but his internal clock runs a little faster thanks to Brett, and so James blinks, inhales deeply as he squints into the darkness of the room.

There’s always a moment of confusion, waking up in a new place, but he snuffles a bit and buries his face in the nape of Aleks’s neck when he realizes where he is. Aleks has a neon green digital clock on his bedside table, and it’s only about fifteen minutes before his daily alarm.

They must’ve gotten tangled up together somehow over the course of the night; he’s got his thigh wedged between both of Aleks’s, got his back pressed up against his chest. They’re both still naked, but they’re under Aleks’s sheets and thick comforter and it’s probably the most comfortable James has been in a long time. He sniffles, pulls Aleks just a little bit closer, and Aleks sighs in his sleep and shifts with him, presses closer.

He doesn’t want to get out of the bed. He wants to just lay there, with his arms around Aleks’s belly, holding him as close as he can. It’s… it’s a rough realization, when you come to terms with the fact that you’re in love with someone. James has been in puppy love before, and he knows he has. Part of him tries to rationalize, _that’s what this is, it’s too soon, you’re just in love with the idea of it, you’re high on it, it’ll fade,_ and fuck would that make everything easier. He knows it would make everything _so_ much easier if this were a fling, or a one night stand, a dumb crush that’ll fade away.

 _You’re a fucking idiot_ , he thinks to himself. _You are a goddamn moron._

The rest of him knows that he’s not fooling himself, knows that it’s not some kind of… honeymoon period, where it’s going to fade, where he’s not going to be in love once the warmth of it all wears off. He’s got to have to worst fucking luck in the entire world, he thinks bitterly. Aleks was supposed to have _died_ nearly two months ago and instead James goes and fucking falls in love with him.

He presses his nose against Aleks’ hair and inhales. He smells like sleep, smells like the vague remnants of shampoo, smells like something James is always going to attribute to _Aleks._

He has to get up, has to start getting ready for work. He didn’t bring any clothes with him, because he’s a fool, so he’ll just have to wear his date clothes. Hopefully no one will notice that he’s a little bit overdressed compared to what he usually wears. But getting ready for work also means he has to actually get _up,_ which seems nigh impossible right now. He could just as easily stay right here in this bed and never get up again.

Still, he starts to shift, starts to pull the blankets off himself while still keeping them on Aleks. His bed partner sleeps soundly on, not a care in the world, doesn’t even so much as stir beyond his gentle breathing when James carefully slips out of the bed at last. He’s still bare-assed naked, and it’s almost like a walk of shame as he hobbles around Aleks’s bedroom, trying to be as quiet as possible.

He’s done an _actual_ walk of shame before, of course, because college was an adventure from start to finish, but this is something different, in the end. He looks over at Aleks and his expression softens from concentrated to gentle, because Aleks just looks so _peaceful._ He doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t think that Aleks would particularly mind it either if he stayed, but he knows he can’t.

He manages to find his boxers, his jeans, his shirt, straps his watch back to his wrist. Never before has he been so thrilled to be undead; he doesn’t smell at all, doesn’t smell like sweat or sleep or come, and that’s about the best thing to happen to him right now. He tugs his shirt over his head, glances over at the clock and sighs.

Aleks still doesn’t stir when James crouches down next to the bed, and James runs the back of his fingers through his hair.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Aleks.”

No response, and Jame chuckles softly as he gives Aleks a gentle but firm tap on the cheek.

“Babe. Wake up.”

There’s a crinkle between Aleks’ eyes as he finally moves, eyes squeezing tighter for a couple of seconds before slowly they open, stare at James blearily. He looks cute, vacant and confused with sleep clogging up any mental faculties he’d usually call upon, and James laughs again.

“I have to go,” he whispers, runs his fingers through Aleks’ hair again. “I’ll text you later?”

He’s expecting for Aleks to blink and yawn, maybe mutter something and roll over; anything that people have done in the past when James has woken them up. Seamus was a big fan of throwing a curse and a slap out before turning over and immediately passing out again, and James had gotten pretty good at dodging those. But Aleks just… stares at him, for a long moment, long enough that it unsettles him.

“Aleks?” he asks, and Aleks doesn’t blink at all. He just stares at him. “Aleks. Hey.”

He still looks… looks empty, in his eyes, lips parted and slack, still breathing rhythmically like he’s asleep. James feels something uncomfortable starting to settle in his stomach, and he snaps his fingers in front of Aleks’s nose, says “hey” sort of sharply. Aleks doesn’t blink at that, keeps on with his zombie-ish gaze, and James can feel himself trying to freak the fuck out. He takes a deep breath, snaps his fingers again, a third time, still doesn’t get a response.

“Aleks,” he says again, loud and firm and scared. “ _Aleks!_ ”

Aleks blinks.

James jerks back, startled. Aleks breathes in through his teeth, life floods his eyes again, and then his face scrunches up like he’s in pain, almost like he’s about to cry. He reaches out and presses both palms against his eyes, moaning softly before he says, “dude, _what._ ”

“What,” James starts, stops, tries again, “what was that about?”

“What was what about,” Aleks says tightly, and curls into himself on the bed. James immediately leans forward, worried, still trying very hard not to panic. “Dude, just—sorry, sorry, I got a migraine, I guess.”

“A migraine,” James repeats, voice shrill. The pitch must hurt Aleks, because he inhales too quickly again, curls farther into himself and buries his face in the pillow. But he’s moving, he’s responding, and that’s good enough for James. It’s better, at the very least, than whatever that… that empty spell had been. “You sure? You sure it’s just a migraine?”

“I get them all the time,” Aleks says stiffly. “Can you, can you maybe not talk so loud, man?”

“Oh, oh fuck. Sorry.” James tries to lower his voice again, in tone and volume, and reaches out to run his fingers through Aleks’s hair. He can feel the way Aleks flinches away from him, the way his hands press harder into his eyes. James can see him gritting his teeth, and then Aleks speaks very quietly.

“Don’t— please don’t, don’t touch me right now, James.”

James pulls his hand back instantly, and even though he doesn’t _want_ them to, his feelings are hurt anyway.

“Sorry,” he says, a little too quickly. “Sorry, I’m just. Worried. You get migraines?”

“Yes,” Aleks responds tightly. “Can you just. Just go? Please?”

“...yeah.” James can’t help how quiet and hurt it comes out. “Yeah, I’ll go.”

Aleks makes a high noise, one of both pain _and_ anger somehow, and when he takes his hands away briefly to glare at James, he can see that there are tears brimming there, can see where his cheeks have gone red. He looks so _mad,_ through the clear agony in his head, and James is a little startled by it.

“You don’t have to make me feel like shit about it,” Aleks snaps, and James is almost stunned stupid. What the fuck? “Just, just _go._ ”

“I wasn’t—Okay, okay, I’m going,” James says, confused and feeling his own anger rising in his chest as he stands. He tries to taper it down, because arguing certainly isn’t going to get them anymore, and definitely not first thing in the morning. James is usually all about the arguing, but he really doesn’t feel like arguing with Aleks, who looks absolutely fucking _miserable_. “Sorry. I wasn't trying to make you feel bad.”

“Well, you did,” Aleks says angrily, and then flinches and makes a soft noise, curls farther into himself. James watches him take a few deep breaths, watches him slowly unclench. When he speaks again, it’s meek, and James feels a pang of sympathy. “James, I’m sorry, man, I just—I don’t feel great. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” says James, as quietly as he can. “It’s okay, I’ll just. I’ll go. Text me later?”

Aleks makes a soft, affirmative noise, hiding his face in his knees now as the pain bows his back and has him hiding under the sheets again. James has never seen him like this, and he wants to help, but there’s nothing he can think of that he can do so he gathers his phone and wallet off the side table, slips quietly out the bedroom door. Immediately Mishka perks her head up from the couch and he grins tiredly, crouches down as she comes bounding up to him with her tongue out.

“Hey there, pretty,” he coos softly, and she barks. James shushes her instantly, stands back up to find where he’s seen Aleks scoop her dog food out into her bowl. “Your dad’s feeling a little sick so you gotta be quiet, okay? Here.” He gives her a hearty bowl, probably more than she usually has, and he feels like a cool uncle slipping an extra five into his niece’s pocket. She starts eating excitedly and he gives her a few hard pats on the butt. He thinks about walking her too, but he takes a quick glance at his watch and sighs.

“I’ll see you later, beautiful,” he mutters, rubs her between the ears as he stands up again. Aleks has a whiteboard on his fridge with a couple groceries scrawled on it in blocky handwriting, and James smiles fondly at something so mundane and normal. He writes a little note with Aleks’s red marker, nice and simple. _Fed Mishka. Feel better. -J_

He considers drawing a little heart, but decides against it and just scribbles a little smiley face instead before grabbing his jacket off the couch. He doesn’t have a key, so he just lets the door click shut behind himself and makes his way back down to the street as he shrugs his jacket on. It’s still the earlier part of the day, the morning mist rising gently in the air as he lets himself out and starts making his way towards the Waffle Haus, and it’s sharp in his nose.

Still, he can’t stop thinking about Aleks. James has had migraines before, and it’s not exactly a friendly state to be in, so he can chalk up Aleks’s hostility to his pain. But it still didn’t feel great to go from their cheerful interactions to… to _that,_ to Aleks snapping at him like an angry cat _._ He’s ribbed Aleks before, and Aleks can give it just as good as he gets, but this morning was a significant exception. James rubs his hands together in the early morning air, breathes into them to warm himself up as he hurries down the street.

Aleks had been irritated last night too, though, and he’d had a headache then as well. But it’s just as all easily chalked up to simply having worked a lot yesterday and his body taking a toll on him for it. James doesn’t have to worry about any of that anymore; he could run across the country, like Forrest Gump, and it wouldn’t make a damn difference to him or his body. He doesn’t _have_ to eat or sleep or shower, but he does. Maybe he’d just forgotten what it’s like to be human, and that thought terrifies him enough that he shoves it down. He shouldn’t let it bother him, any of it. He’ll text Aleks later, when he’s feeling better, and they can put this morning’s argument behind them.

But then he remembers how Aleks had looked before, when he had first woken up. The way his eyes had looked, just… empty, vacant. Like he was _dead._

James breathes into his hands again, rubs them together, ignoring the way his stomach turns unpleasantly.

He likes Aleks’s eyes, and always has since they met. They’re a pretty deep brown, always full of laughter, always crinkled at the edges. But seeing Aleks like that has him shaken. There had been nothing _there._ He’d been staring at James as if he were simply looking right through him, seeing nothing on the other side. As if James weren’t there at all, but more than that, as if Aleks weren’t either.

James may be dead, but he’s not a ghost; ghosts are real, and he never wants to deal with them. Joe had said, in a quiet, hushed voice that they’re people who refused their afterlife, who wander aimlessly around the earth, invisible and mournful. James isn’t invisible, even if he is a bit mournful now and again, but he’s not a ghost. There’s no way Aleks suddenly couldn’t see him.

He rolls on the balls of his feet at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn, and catches sight of Joe and Trevor towards the other end of the street. They’re speaking with their heads close together, Trevor ducking his head down, and Joe looks unsettled. Without really thinking on it, James jogs across the street to catch up with them, and he catches the tail end of whatever Trevor’s saying.

“—sounded upset, I dunno.” Trevor looks up when James comes up to their side, and despite whatever they’d be talking about, he still gets a friendly welcome. “Oh, hey dude. You look nice today.”

“Yeah, what’s the occasion?” Joe says, sounding a little surprised. James runs his hand through his hair, where it’s still curling against his shoulders. His hair tie is probably somewhere on Aleks’s floor, but he’s still wearing a v-neck and probably glowing a little anyway from sex even if it’s been dimmed by the argument. So maybe he’s feeling a little self-conscious all of a sudden.

“No occasion,” he says after a moment. Another lie, and they’re starting to pile up. Part of him hadn’t realized that he’d have to hide his relationship with Aleks from his friends, even though it seems obvious now. Of course he has to. “Dunno. Thought I’d look like more of a person today than usual. Is that bad?”

Joe shrugs, and tilts his head a little as he studies James thoughtfully. James feels like he’s being scrutinized.

“Who’s upset?” he asks and starts to walk, as a way to distract everyone. Trevor pushes his sunglasses up onto his forehead, just under all his messy hair. He looks a bit troubled, rubs at the back of his neck as he stares off towards something in the distance.

“Brett,” he answers after a moment. “He called me this morning, told us to come as early as we could. I don’t know why he sounded so freaked out.” He looks down at his sidewalk, and then up again. “Brett’s usually pretty chill, so... I guess something serious is going on.”

“You don’t usually come this way,” Joe says, quite suddenly, and now he sounds a little confused as he follows up behind the two of them, having to move a little quicker to compensate for his small legs. He’s too goddamn smart, and James doesn’t have a quick reply to that, so he shrugs his shoulders.

“Came a different way,” he says, trying to think fast. “I, uh. I thought about getting coffee or something but… but you know, we can just get it at the Haus anyway, so.”

Joe’s still looking at him in that slightly confused way, but he seems to accept that answer well enough because he drops it and James instantly feels better for it. He shoves his hands in his pockets and they all walk together in the chilly morning air. They fall into step easily enough, settle into a comfortable quiet, and James lets his mind wander back to Aleks.

This time, though, he lets it drift to the night before. The way that Aleks’s hair had smelled when James buried his nose in it as they moved together, his sweaty hands running down James’s back, the soft noises he made into his mouth when James hit that spot just right. He might be doing a walk of shame a bit, yeah, and he might be doing it right next to his friends, but it brings a smug little grin to his face anyway. They could do that again. He would definitely not be opposed to that.

The Waffle Haus is bustling with the early morning breakfast rush, and their waitress rushes past them as they’re walking towards their usual booth with a hurried, “morning, boys!” They get out of her way immediately, and James feels that ever familiar rush of affection for the monotony of certain day-to-day rituals. Go to the Haus, get the special, tip their waitress extra for dealing with their shit.

Brett’s sitting in the booth like always, but there’s a set to his brow that nearly gives James pause. He looks uncertain, upset even, and he’s staring down at the newspaper without any food in front of him. All he has is a glass of water, and it looks untouched. James can see his eyes darting back and forth as he reads the paper, as he pulls his phone out from his pocket and reads something there too.

“Morning,” Trevor says a bit loudly, a bit pointedly, and Brett doesn’t immediately look up. He’s still reading from his phone, and he finally sighs as he sets it down front first, looks up at them at last.

“We’ve got a problem,” he says and his voice is tense. James shares a glance with Joe, and Joe shrugs, tilts his chin towards the booth. James slides in after a moment of uncertainty, and Joe follows while Trevor sits down next to Brett, immediately leans forward into Brett’s space to read the paper. Usually there’d be a crack of some kind from someone about the lack of personal bubbles, but Brett just lets him as his mouth grows thin, as Trevor reads. “Gravelings killed someone last night. Without an appointment. And that’s a big problem for us.”

James can feel Joe go completely still, and Brett’s expression is deadly serious as he continues. James has never seen him quite so intense, and his voice pitches lower than usual as he talks.

“I don’t know why, so don’t ask. I do know the how, which is none of your business right now, any of you.” That last bit he directs at Trevor, who gives him a sour look but doesn’t say anything. “But you three need to keep your eyes out. That building wasn’t a mistake, and last night wasn’t a mistake either. I’m starting to think all the shit that’s been happening recently has to do with them.”

James is quiet for a moment, which is pretty unusual for him.

“Do they, like… I mean, do all they do is kill?” he asks after thinking about it, and Brett runs his hands down his scruffy face, growls into his palms.

“Sometimes,” he says, muffled, slides his hands back up to run them through his hair instead. “Most of the time they like to fuck with people, but they’re not supposed to _kill_ unless we have an appointment. They’re just supposed to be irritating little assholes. I honestly don’t know what the fuck is going on, and neither do the other guys.”

James assumes he means the other de facto bosses of each division. He’s met a couple of them in passing, but Geoff had seemed uninterested and Steve a little anxious, so James had sort of kept his distance there. He’s never really had the chance to hang out with the others, which is fine. He likes his little group well enough, anyway. At least he’s used to them.

Their waitress swings around to drop off waters and coffee and take their orders; James, Joe, and Trevor all order, but Brett doesn’t. He’s back on his phone, and as soon as she walks away again he lifts it to his ear, waits for a couple seconds before he starts talking quietly again. James tries not to eavesdrop, instead busies himself with his own phone while Brett talks.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a bit. Alright, see you soon,” Brett’s saying, and sighs, phone clicking as he ends the call and then returns his face to his hands for a second. He looks exhausted, somehow, and it’s almost like an afterthought as he reaches into his jacket pocket and half tosses the Post-Its and his notebook onto the table with a loud slap.

“Who was that?” Joe asks, and he sounds sympathetic instead of curious, which is the direction James had planned on going.

“Geoff. I’m going with his crew for the day.” Brett finally picks up his water and takes a sip before he starts to write on the Post-Its, methodical and quick. Trevor’s been oddly quiet for most of the conversation, but James can see how his eyes widen a little bit at that, how he shifts slightly from where he’s sitting.

“You think you’ll have to, like, transfer again?” he asks, and again James feels Joe stiffening against his arm. He knows _nothing_ about transferring; he wasn’t actually aware that was anything that could be done. He wants to ask more about it, but before he can Brett’s laughing a tad bitterly, shaking his head as he sticks the top Post-It to Trevor’s forehead.

“Don’t work yourself up, Trev,” he says, and there’s something fondly teasing there. “You’re trapped with me for the foreseeable future. I don’t wanna fucking work with them again, anyway. I like you shitheads for some reason.”

James’s phone buzzes in his pocket while Trevor’s pulling the Post-It off and making a face at Brett, and he pulls it out without thinking, reads it next to his thigh from under the table. There’s a text waiting for him, and it’s from Aleks. He quickly looks up, accepts his Post-It from Brett and then busies himself to make it look like he’s programming his appointment into his phone. Instead he opens his messages, heart pounding.

_Hey I know you’re at work but I was a real dickhead this morning, I’m sorry_

He takes a quick peek at the others, and as soon as he sees that they’re all distracted with each other he quickly sends a response.

_Well youre pretty cranky when you wake up but it was sorta cute_

_Fuck you. And also thanks for feeding Mishka. You didn’t have to do that_

There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he types out a reply, imaging that Aleks is probably curled back up in bed with Mishka at his feet. He wishes he didn’t have to leave so early. It would’ve been almost normal, laying in bed with sunlight streaming in, talking about nothing while the dog dozed nearby. What a domestic vision that is, he thinks dryly.

_Don’t worry about it. You can always make it up to me somehow ;)_

_Hmmm dog park later? And then your place?_

James feels his cheeks going a bit red.

_Oooh two dates in a row. Are you wooing me Aleksandr?_

_And here I was thinking I’d wooed you last night with my ass :P_

True enough. It’s a very fine ass.

_Dog park then you fucking pervert_

To his surprise, Aleks sends him a little heart emoji in return, nothing more. It makes the heat in his face just a little bit warmer, and he swallows as he tries to consider an appropriate response. He settles, finally, for a little kissing face emoji, sends it before he can properly think about it. It’s not his usual method, sending emojis and writing notes on whiteboards, but he’s also dead. He figures a little deviation from how he used to do things is allowed.

He slips his phone back into his pocket and as he raises his head again, Joe turns away.

James stares at him for a couple of seconds, wide-eyed, but Joe makes no motion to acknowledge it, seems to be engaged in his conversation with Trevor. Still, there’s something like unease that’s wedged itself in James’s throat, and he swallows as their waitress comes over with her tray, smiles as he accepts his plate and starts to eat. Brett gets up a little after that, tips his hat at them before putting it on backwards like always.

“Later, boys. Don’t break anything while I’m hanging out with our best buddies from Natural Causes.”

“Yeah. Good luck,” James tells him, and Brett walks backwards, makes a sort of eye-rolling face that says _I’d rather be doing anything else_ before he’s out the door. There’s still tension in his shoulders that James can see, and he wonders just how stressed Brett actually is, and how well he’s trying to keep it from them. Trevor spreads himself out on his side of the booth after that, flips through the paper that Brett had left behind before he gets bored.

Shit, man. James used to hate monotony but now he’s thriving in it. It’s so simple to just sit there with friends and bitch about shit like weird coworkers, or the weather. James doesn’t want to talk about gravelings, but they come up anyway. He pokes at his eggs with the prongs of his fork.

“You think they’re gonna know anything?” Trevor asks through his mouthful of food, and Joe’s quiet for a moment before he answers.

“If anyone’ll know something, it’d be Geoff, I guess,” he admits after a moment. “Dunno why Natural Causes, though. But I guess he’s been around long enough to have seen this shit before.”

“Has it happened before?” James asks, curious.

Joe hesitates.

“Well, I mean… no,” he finally says. “Sort of, but the gravelings weren’t really doing it? It was a weird situation.” He looks over at Trevor, who’s begun to pick at his plate with his fork as well. There’s an odd look on his face, and Joe continues hurriedly. “I mean, you know, mostly people just stick to the rules so it’s like, years and years of just the same shit every day. But… sometimes things happen.”

“But people have… died before, without appointments?” James looks between the two of them. “Like, that happens?”

“Yes,” Trevor says tightly, joining in on the conversation. “Can we not talk about this anymore? I’m over it, dude.”

Startled, James blinks a couple of times and then shrugs his shoulders, returns to his food. He can tell that Joe’s staring at him, and Trevor’s… sulking, almost, and there’s an odd tension in the air. He may be a bit on the oblivious side sometimes, but James is far from an idiot. He knows there’s something he’s not being told here, but he’s not going to push it unless someone else starts the conversation first even though his curiosity is eating at him.

They sit there in awkward silence for a little bit, and James feels a bit responsible for it as he tries to eat the rest of his eggs. He thinks about starting conversation again, but finally Trevor slips out of his booth without finishing his food, throws a ten down on the table. Joe’s watching him with an unreadable expression on his face, and then he sighs as Trevor mutters, “I’ll see you at home, Joe,” and leaves.

Joe lets out a low groan and a sigh, slumps lower in his seat until his hat’s pushed up on his head.

“What the fuck was that about?” James says as soon as Trevor’s out the door. “Did I say something?”

Rolling his head to face him, Joe grins a little tiredly.

“Lots of baggage,” is his answer, and scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “It’s a long story that’s probably almost as old as you are.” He looks over at James again, and there’s something like understanding in his eyes. “Shit’s fucked right now. I just hope we can figure it out and get back to normal life again soon.”

With nothing to say to that, James hums softly, lets his fork clink against his plate as he looks back down at it. He wouldn’t necessarily call what they do _normal,_ but he’s also been doing a little extra that feels more normal than his old schedule. It feels more like how he used to be. Joe sighs then, sits up a little straighter as he digs out his wallet.

“Well, I need to head out,” he says, takes Trevor’s unfinished plate to place it on top of his own after he’s tossed his money down. “I’ll see you later, I guess. You doing anything interesting tonight?”

Thinking of Aleks, James shakes his head.

“Nah. Probably just Netflix,” he says, and Joe nods at him.

“I feel it. Well, if you get bored, our door’s always open.”

“I know, Joe,” James says, and can’t help but smile a little bit. “I appreciate it, man.”

Joe’s answering grin is soft, and he claps James on the shoulder before heading off, leaving James sitting by himself at the booth. It’s a strange moment of quiet in a bustling, lively place, and he takes a deep breath as he stares at nothing at all for a moment. Gravelings killing people, Brett hanging out with Natural Causes, and an apparent fuckload of tragic backstories. This shit’s too much for him. He puts his money with the rest, puts his plate on top of the others, and slips out as well.

His reap’s easy. He has to wait around a bit before it’s time, but in the end it’s just someone choking on their sandwich before lunch, and then he’s heading back to his place again. He’s been wearing the same clothes since last night and while he doesn’t feel very disgusting thanks to the whole reaper thing, he still wants to freshen up a bit before he heads out towards the dog park. No smell is obviously preferable over bad smell, but he’ll take good smell most of all.

After his shower he switches into jeans and a t-shirt, texts Aleks a quick little _what time?_ before he flops down on his couch and sinks down into the cushions, fiddling with his phone while he waits. Aleks’s answer is prompt, tells him that he’s got the day off from work so whenever he wants to go he can. If James had his way he’d go right now, but he manages to tell Aleks that they can meet up in the afternoon, maybe in about an hour.

He lasts all of twenty minutes before he’s out the door again. It’ll take him some time to walk there anyway.

They usually go to the dog park in the morning, so when James carefully unlatches the fence, there’s a whole group of people he’s never seen before. He looks out at all of the faces, smiles when he catches some of the dogs chasing each other around the large stretch of grass, the owners throwing balls and Frisbees for them to chase. He can’t see Aleks and Mishka anywhere, so he goes to walk towards their usual spot.

That’s when he hears it.

There’s plenty of barking, of course, but James turns anyway. There’s this split second where he doesn’t process it; all he sees is a fat little tan shape barreling towards him like a fucking missile, barking wildly, and then he’s crouching down, throwing his arms open a second before his dog slams into him with the force of a goddamn train.

Ein licks at his face furiously, whimpering excitedly and wiggling in his arms so much that he can scarcely keep a hold of her, her leash flopping around where it’s attached to her collar. James just laughs hysterically, utterly stunned, falls straight on his ass as she wriggles and huffs and tries to kiss every inch of his face she can with her wet, sloppy tongue. She sounds like she’s crying, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s _actually_ crying, hiccuping wildly because holy fuck, _holy fuck,_ it’s Ein, he’s holding his goddamn dog in his arms again after nearly half a year without her. It can’t be real.

“Ein!” There’s another person sprinting up to them, and he sounds horrified, familiar. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, _Ein,_ come on, hey girl一”

“It’s okay,” James manages to say, still half-laughing, half-crying. He manages to pull himself together, wipes furiously at his eyes with his shoulder before he looks up, manages to tear his eyes away from Ein at last to stare at the person that skids to a stop in front of them. He can see the honey-blond beard, the blue eyes, the stupid, _stupid_ red hat, and he has to swallow hard, starts laughing again.

“I have no idea what’s gotten into her, I’m really sorry,” Jordan says, crouching down and grabbing her around the middle, tries to tug her off James’s lap. He’s gentle about it, which James somehow hadn’t been expecting, but neither he nor Ein want to particularly stop the reunion so James just shakes his head and holds her a bit tighter, unable to stop his giggles.

“No, nonono, seriously,” he says, and Jordan blessedly pauses, takes his hands away, “it’s okay. She’s real sweet. I promise, it’s cool, I’m just—it was a bit of a surprise, is all.”

Well, it’s not a _lie_.

Jordan laughs, sounding a little breathless, but he seems relieved that James is taking the friendly assault with such good humor. Now that James can get a good long look at him, he can see how his beard’s a little ungroomed, his eyes have dark circles underneath them. But he seems… he seems better than Seamus had, at least. He looks like he’s at least getting along. James ought to be a little put out that Jordan seems to be doing well since he died, but mostly he’s just excited to see his dog again. She won’t stop licking his face and now he truly understands; dogs must be able to see them for who they really are. She must _know._

“She doesn’t usually freak out like this,” Jordan explains, and it would be almost endearingly oblivious if they hadn’t parted on such harsh terms. He’s talking to James like he’s a stranger, instead of one of his best friends for damn near six years of his life. “Seriously, sorry about her.”

“Nah, seriously, I am A-okay,” James says, rubs Ein between her ears. But then it occurs to him. It’s been seven months since he died. If it’s been that long, and Jordan’s the one with Ein at the dog park, then maybe… had he _kept_ her? It fills him with a bit of jealousy, and he tries to quell it. “She yours?”

Jordan hesitates, just long enough to make James relax.

“Uh, well,” he says slowly, unsure. “Yes and no. I’m… I’m watching her. For a friend.”

“Ohh.” James pretends to be impressed, while his heart suddenly clenches up a little painfully. He looks down at Ein again, and she pants up at him. “Not sure when he’s coming back, I’m guessing?”

Again, Jordan hesitates, and James can see his throat bobbing as he swallows. Realizing he’s pushing too hard, too fast, James backpedals.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry,” he says, holds his hands up. Ein chases one hand, licks at his palm. “Just curious, that’s all. I love Corgis. Always wanted one.”

Jordan’s laugh is a bit hollow, and he looks down, holds out his hands and clicks his tongue. Ein gives James another furious bout of licking but when she sees Jordan reaching out for her she turns, runs up to him and plops down in front of him. Her eyes are adoring as she gazes from Jordan to James and back again, panting excitedly the whole time. Jordan starts to rub her hard enough that she moves with the motions of it, and she looks thrilled. It fills James’s chest with an emotion he can’t quite place.

“She’s a good girl,” Jordan says, almost to himself, and then shakes his head, runs his hands from the top of her head down to her shoulderblades.

“You get along real good with her,” James replies, a bit thickly.

“Well, I’m a cat person,” Jordan says, and if James didn’t know him at all he wouldn’t be able to hear the inside joke there. But he’s known Jordan for fucking _years,_ and he knows every stupid tic and tell of Jordan’s personality. He knows very well that Jordan’s a cat person, since he’ll cross the street at a moment’s notice to pet any damn cat he sees. “So that’s been… interesting.”

“Why’re you watching her if you’re a cat person?” James asks, pretends to be interested. He doesn’t want to press too hard, but… holy fuck, it’s _Jordan._ Fucking Jordan. James feels the pang of longing for his old life, for his friends; even if it meant having to face Jordan and admitting he was right about a lot of things, James would do it in an instant. He’d missed the solid weight of his dog in his lap, and he’d missed the stupid, mischievous gleam in Jordan’s eyes. It’s hardly there now.

Jordan keeps petting Ein, but the way he looks at James is a little knowing, a little wry.

“I just am,” he says simply.

James hesitates for a moment. He’s not sure how to approach this situation, doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do here. He’s not allowed to make contact with friends, but he remembers his two and only interactions with Seamus, remembers how hard he’d flubbed those. He’s thought of those brief conversations a lot, thought of all the things he would do differently, and he has that chance now. Jordan has no idea who he is. He could say whatever he wanted, and Jordan will never know the difference. He’ll just assume James is either really intuitive or just batshit insane.

He takes the plunge, figures he’s got nothing left to lose.

“Your friend… he not coming back at all?” he asks, tries to make it casual.

Jordan’s mouth thins, and James thinks he might’ve pushed it too far, but then—

“No. He’s not.”

James nods wisely, reaches out to rub Ein’s head. “Can I pet her some more?” It seems absurd, that he has to ask to pet his own dog, but Jordan nods, and James immediately gestures.

The way she’s looking at James is beyond loving, and she instantly trots over, plops herself right on his lap again so that James can dig his fingers into all of her fur and scratch until her stubby little tail starts wagging. With a sigh, Jordan finally sits down too, leans one fluffy cheek on his hand as he watches James rub her all over. He looks exhausted, and James knows he has to play this game carefully if he wants any kind of information on what his old life was like after he died. It could be his one chance.

He thinks back to their last conversation—or rather, their last fight. Nose to nose, practically spitting at each other, Seamus trying fruitlessly to separate the two of them as they hurled insults at each other, went for the jugular, fought until James had to physically leave the room before he punched Jordan right in his stupid, smug face. It had been a nasty fight, probably their worst, and then James went and died two days later. He wonders how pissed Jordan had been at them for that. Always with the last word, he used to say. Can’t let anyone else win, James. Not ever.

He wonders if maybe Jordan’s still mad at him now.

“You know, you seem like a good guy,” James says, knows Jordan enough by now to know just what to say to get him to prickle. “Dunno what sort of friend just dumps their dog on a guy and takes off.”

Yep. Jordan’s eyebrows go up, his mouth thins as he reels his head back just a little bit. It’s the same look Seamus had given James when he’d questioned why he’d come to work. James just has to wheedle Jordan into oversharing, has to appeal to that side of him that always wants to boast and preen.

“He didn’t,” Jordan says after a moment. He looks like he’s getting ready to get up, to grab Ein’s leash and leave. “That’s not what happened at all.”

Again, James takes a step back. He’s not exactly the most delicate person in the world, but he’s got to give this his best shot. He _knows_ how to play Jordan.

“Sorry, sorry, I just mean—she’s such a beauty, can’t imagine why anyone would give her up, you know?”

“He didn’t,” Jordan repeats, and his eyebrows are furrowed. _Come on,_ James thinks. _Come on, Jordan._ “He died.”

And there it is. James expects it to feel triumphant, like it’s a victory to get Jordan to admit it, but there’s something in Jordan’s tone that makes him pause instead. It’s heavy, the words, and Jordan immediately looks down at Ein instead, chewing on his lip like he does when he’s pissed.

“Oh,” James says. “Well. I feel like an asshole now. Sorry to hear that, man.”

“It’s… it’s fine.”

Jordan sighs then, endlessly long-suffering, and James never thought he’d miss that sound before. He must be really desperate for his old life, to miss that. He returns to petting Ein again, has to keep himself in check. He wants to shove his face in all her fur, wants to cry again, the weight of her so comforting in his lap. Her collar jingles loudly as he pets her, and he takes the tags in his fingers, looks at them.

It takes him a second to realize, and then his heart clenches up.

 _Jordan,_ he thinks, his eyes burning, _you absolute fucking asshole._

The tag he had bought for Ein when she was a puppy is still there. It still has her name, his number, his address, as if he’d never died at all. Her vaccinations are all up to date, and then there’s a fourth tag after her registration. All it has engraved on it is what he recognizes as Jordan’s number, and then on the other side, _**PLEASE CALL THIS NUMBER IF I’M LOST!**_

“Ein,” he says out loud, tries to keep his voice from shaking. “That’s a pretty name.”

Oh, but the sick little part of James that wants Jordan to say, _if you like her so much then you can have her_. What he would give for Jordan to hand her over, to let James get this small part of his life back. His sweet dog that used to chew on his computer wires, that he probably spent way too much money on. He wonders if she gives Jordan the same grief, wonders if Jordan grabbed all of those toys when he went to get her from James’s apartment. He wonders if she’s still happy without him.

But at the same time he knows how fucking pissed he’d be at that. If Jordan just up and gave Ein to who he thought was a stranger, James is pretty sure he’d never fucking forgive him. He’d purposefully haunt him for the rest of Jordan’s natural life. That, or he’d just punch him in the face right now.

He looks up from the tags and catches the look on Jordan’s face. He’s just staring at Ein, and there’s something distant in his eyes before he says, “yeah. He named her after an anime.”

James has always known Jordan for his drama and tendency to overblow a situation now and again for the humor of it, but this Jordan is just… blunt, gentle. James isn’t nearly self-involved enough to think that his death singlehandedly warped Jordan’s entire personality, but… fuck. It’s different, and it’s weird.

“You just keeping her?” James asks, and Jordan shrugs, beckons towards Ein again. She hops off James’s lap and runs over to him, clearly loving all the attention. James watches her go, watches as Jordan scratches her behind the ear where she likes.

“His mom couldn’t. I was taking care of her for a while, then I just…”

James reaches out, pats Ein on her butt once.

”It’s… probably selfish,” Jordan says slowly, giving Ein some rubs hard enough to bunch up her ears, and she looks pleased as punch about it. But what throws James for a loop is Jordan admitting to being _anything,_ let alone being selfish. “But… I told his mom I’d just keep her. I don’t know.”

James wonders, then, if this is Jordan’s way of saying sorry without knowing it一sorry for the fighting, the name calling, the weeks on end where they didn’t speak to each other because they’re both too stubborn and proud. Sorry that James died before they ever repaired that rift between them, sorry that the last words they ever said to each other were curses. He wonders if Jordan’s giving Ein the best life she can have without James as his apology, and somehow… somehow that makes it easier to stomach, that Jordan’s the one who gets to keep her.

He wonders if Jordan feels _guilty,_ and this is the only way he knows how to quell it.

“Wow,” Jordan says after a second, and James is half-expecting him to say some stupid shit like _gosh darnit,_ “sorry, that got real deep real quick, didn’t it?”

“Hey, I asked,” James says, and his phone buzzes then. He tugs it out of his pocket, sees that Aleks is texting him. For the first time, he doesn’t want to immediately jump up. He wants to stay here, pet Ein, talk to Jordan, wants to forget everything else for just a second. But he’s already pushed it as far as he knows it can go, knows that if he says anything more that Jordan’s going to think he’s too weird, and he’s going to leave.

_I’m here where are you?_

He lifts his head, searches for a second until he can spot Aleks on the other side of the park, coming in from the opposite direction. He swallows, looks down again.

_I see you. Be right there._

“Well,” he says, and looks up again. “Uh. I hope things are okay for you, man.”

“...thanks,” Jordan says, sounding confused, but he’s got that grin on his face that means he’s pretending that he’s cordial, rather than probably freaked out as he should be. Damn, James looks like a nutcase to his own eyes. He reaches out one more time for Ein and she must understand, because she licks his face as he smiles down at her.

“Goodbye, beautiful,” he says softly. “Be good, okay?”

He knows Jordan must be wondering what the fuck is up with him, but James just rises abruptly. He’s walking away in an instant, and all he knows is that he needs to _keep going._

”Who was that?” Aleks asks curiously as soon as James walks up to him; he’s stretched out on his back, arms crossed beneath his head while Mishka licks happily at his face. James turns one last time to stare at Jordan in the distance, watches as Ein dances around his feet on her leash and he reaches down to give her more pets on the top of her fat little butt.

“No one,” he finally says, and rubs at his eyes. “I just... really liked that dog. That’s all.” He looks up again, shakes his head. “I have to go.”

“Wh—” Aleks sits up, and James winces at his tone. He sounds angry and confused and hurt. “But, but I just got here!”

“I’m sorry,” James says, and there’s thick sorrow suddenly lurching in his stomach, makes him want to cry, making his voice thick. “Shit, dude, I’m sorry, I really—I gotta go.”

If Aleks continues his protests, James doesn’t hear any of them. He jerks the gate open and closes it behind him, takes off. He thinks that his apartment is probably his best bet, but his eyes are already starting to cloud over with tears. His dog. His fucking _dog,_ he had known that he’d run into people he knew eventually but he hadn’t expected that he’d run into _Ein._ Part of him had always wanted it, but now that he’s got it all he feels is misery. He was so close to her, and now it’s just driven home how he’ll never be able to get her back.

He can’t get any of it back. Not Ein, not Jordan, not his mother, not Seamus. It’s all gone from him, forever, and now he’s trying desperately to fill that hole with whatever he can. He knows that, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. James just wants to fucking wallow in it, he wants to feel sorry for himself just like he’s sure everyone else has. He knows his situation, at least as far as losing _everything,_ isn’t exclusive to himself but right now it feels like this heaviness is the only thing he’s ever known. He feels as terrible as he had the first day.

“Fuck,” he says, has to stop and lean against a building as he tries to breathe. His nose is all stuffy and his eyes are still burning and he feels a million different kinds of terrible, terrible in a way he hasn’t for a while. All of the happiness of his relationship with Aleks had dimmed it, and now it’s rearing its ugly head full force. His phone buzzes again but it’s a call this time, insistent in his back pocket. He ignores it. “ _Fuck._ ”

He keeps going after that, weaves his way through the city and tries to breathe.

What the fuck is he doing? He thinks back to Ein and makes a soft noise, something that’s trying to be a sob but he won’t let it. His _dog._ All the times he daydreamed about seeing her again and all it’s done is hurt him more. Fucking Jordan. James doesn’t know what to do, what he’s supposed to think. He hurt Aleks’s feelings, undoubtedly, ruined a perfectly good dog park date that they haven’t indulged in for a while. He’s a fucking mess.

He has to stop again, has to breathe hard while people dodge around him, unsure. Fuck. Goddamnit.

“You look like you’re having a grand old time,” comes a interested voice, and James jerks back, eyes wide.

The person immediately puts his hands up, placating. It takes James a second, but he recognizes him as someone from Geoff’s crew, sandy-haired and thin. He’s met him before.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” the guy says, and with the accent James can finally place him. “What are you doing here, anyway? Brett was working with us today, didn’t think we’d see any more of you lot here.”

“What?” James says, confused, still panting for breath, and Gavin’s eyebrows raise a little bit.

“Oh. Never mind, then,” he says, hands now moving to his pockets. “Must be a coincidence.”

James can usually banter with the best of them, even if he doesn’t always come out on top, but right now he’s just run halfway through the city and he’s still near tears, so he just squints and tries to figure out what the fuck he’s talking about. He looks up, finally takes in where he is. Somehow he’d managed to run his way to the restaurant that he and Aleks had had their first date at. He stares up at the sign, takes in the caution tape that’s been stretched out around the entrance, the emptiness of the whole building.

“What the,” he starts, confused, “what happened? What the fuck?”

Gavin squints at him for a second or two.

“Huh. I thought Brett told all of you. That whole mess with the gravelings, that’s all…” He gestures vaguely. “That’s all here. We’re keeping an eye on the place.”

James stares at him.

“Wait, this is where—this is where they died? The person without the appointment?”

“Yep.” Gavin shrugs, looking almost bored. “Some waiter, I guess.” He points towards where a little shrine has been erected on the fence that surrounds the building. 

He stares at the restaurant again, takes in the sight of it. It’s skeletal, almost, with the outside patio empty and no people running around inside. People dodge around them, and James turns his attention towards the shrine. It’s got pictures and flowers and some candles, dedicated to the person who lost their life the night before, and as James steps up closer he recognizes him as their waiter from that first night.

“Anyway, what’re you running from?” Gavin asks, sounding interested. 

From inside James's pocket, his phone starts to ring again.

“...nothing,” he says quietly, and ignores the call again.


	10. no wealth, no land, no silver or gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're really starting to move into where there is no going back. i hope you guys are strapped in! ;D 
> 
> thank you as always to everyone who's been commenting, especially those of you who comment on every chapter, either here or on tumblr!! it means the world to me. <3
> 
> if you'd like, come say hi on [tumblr](http://myriadus.tumblr.com)!

James really wasn’t expecting it to hurt so bad. He stays in bed for hours, phone on Do Not Disturb, until he can muster up the courage to pull up Facebook. He’s hidden under the covers, and the honking from the cars below does little to soothe him.

He doesn’t sign in, because even he knows where to draw the line, but he takes a deep breath and types _Jordan Mathewson_ into the search bar. He’s breaking another rule, a huge one, but he has to.

Jordan’s profile is still more or less the same; James can’t see all of it, of course, because he’s not signed in. But the picture Jordan has for his profile makes his throat close up, makes tears rise and then gently drip down into the pillow. He doesn’t brush them away, but just lets them slide down his face. No one else can see him being pathetic and lonely in his bed, after all.

It’s a picture of the three of them—James, Jordan, and Seamus—and they’re squashed together on a couch at what James knows is Jordan’s current apartment, the big one he was able to afford after finally getting the promotion at work he was dying for. It’s from about two years ago; James remembers the picture being taken by another one of their friends, remembers how they’d celebrated into the night with cheap beer and cheaper movies.

Seamus looks fondly exhausted, pressed up against the arm of the couch. His hair’s a bit too long, the white streaks near his forehead more prominent, and he’s wearing his purple hoodie. But he looks _happy,_ the dark bags under his eyes a little less deep as he gazes over at the two of them. Jordan’s wedged between Seamus and James, still got his dumb Cardinals hat on, he’s clean-shaven and he’s caught mid-laugh, blue eyes shining with happiness. James could almost smile at it, but instead he finally lets his gaze slide over to himself.

He’s alive. His hair is still short, buzzed close to his head, and James knows that was right around the time when he decided he was going to start growing it out. He’s still a bit chubby, but he’s grinning at the camera, eyes wide and full of joy. James stares at himself for a long time, the color in his own cheeks, the set of his mouth, the dark brown of his eyes. He’s happy. He’s _alive._ It’s a picture that he knows was one of Jordan’s favorites; he had an actual copy of it printed out, had it stuck to the fridge in his kitchen. Somehow the fact that _this_ picture would be the one Jordan would choose to memorialize James on social media makes him sniffle even more.

More tears leak out before he knows it, and he doesn’t know why it’s hitting him so hard now. Maybe it’s because Jordan had talked about him in the past tense, had talked about James like he was gone forever, and to Jordan’s knowledge he _is._ James is dead, and he’s known that, but somehow he’s always let that sit on the backburner. He’s treated it more as if he’d simply moved away, gone to another city, made new friends. Every time he tried to remind himself, _hey, you’re dead, shithole,_ it was like a fact of life that he was refusing to acknowledge beyond the most basic level.

Leave it to Jordan to force James to address the shit in his life even when James is dead. What an asshole.

He types _Seamus O’Doherty_ in next. Seamus has never been that big on social media anyway, but his picture is also one of himself and James and James actually laughs when he sees it. It’s one of their dumber pictures, where they’re grabbing at each other and making weird faces. Seamus has to have at least three chins with how far he’s squishing his face in, and James is poking out his tongue, has a pretty firm hold on Seamus’s hair. The laugh that comes out of him is weak, half a sob. His friends still miss him, _love him_ even, enough that they still haven’t changed their profile pictures seven months later.

He takes a deep breath, slowly keys in his own name. _James Wilson._

It’s weird, staring down at his own profile. There’s a little tab above his banner picture that says, _We hope people who love James will find comfort in visiting his profile to remember and celebrate his life._ It goes on to describe how to memorialize accounts on Facebook, and his stomach turns as he scrolls down to the title at the top of his profile.

 _Remembering James Wilson._ He swallows and starts to read.

There are posts on his wall from friends. Not just Jordan and Seamus, but Spencer, Kevin, Nick, all of them writing posts now and again about how it’s been since he died. The most predominant word is _silent._ Everyone seems to go on about how quiet the world seems to have gotten without him, how their lives are a little less entertaining. They talk about his laugh, his smile, they talk about the good times and the bad times. Seeing people write about him like this is… odd. They’re speaking to him truthfully, because as far as they know he’ll never see it.

Part of him wants to believe that it’s all _fake,_ that people only say all this saccharine bullshit in the face of tragedy, but the rest of him just wants to cling to it. His mother’s posts are the worst ones of all, and he skips past them, knows he’ll have to read those another day. He can’t bear the thought of having to read her pain, and so he doesn’t.

 _Things have been tough lately,_ Seamus writes in one post, and there’s a dumb selfie of the two of them underneath. _It feels really weird when I need you for something and you’re not there anymore. I dunno. I guess I wish we could have one more stupid night in, watching your shitty movies and eating popcorn. I love you, asshole._ There’s a picture that Jordan’s posted of Ein, playing with one of the toys James bought her a million years ago. _Ein misses you, buddy,_ is the caption, and that’s one that really gets him to break. He swipes out of the tab on his phone, buries his face in his pillow and tries as hard as he can to keep silent.

He gets it now. He understands why they’re not allowed to check up on their old lives. As the pillow grows wet under his face he lets another sob break free, lets it hammer home just what’s happened to him. His friends have been mourning him, openly. Even Seamus, who keeps to himself when he’s not being forced to go out, has been writing posts to him, and somehow that cuts him the deepest.

It takes awhile. James has to pull himself together again, presses his nose into the pillow and just works through all of it until he can take a deep breath and switch to Google. Another bad decision, probably, but one that he’s already committed himself to making.

The waiter’s name isn’t hard to find. All he has to do is search for the restaurant name and it pops up easily enough. It’s hard to swallow past the lump in his throat that forms as he stares at the kid’s smiling face, as he reads the headline about how a nice young man Aleks’ age lost his life so tragically soon. It doesn’t say how he died, but James doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t _want_ to know. The age is more than enough for him.

The apartment he’s called his home for months now has never felt so lonely, so _empty._ He finally manages to pull himself up out of his bed, slowly makes his way barefooted back into the kitchen. It’s dark out by now, with only the gentle flickering of the streetlamps below and the moon above illuminating his living room. His toes poke out past the hem of his pajama pants as he walks around in circles, lifts his hands to run them through his hair anxiously.

All this time he thought he finally had a direction he was going in, and now he’s more lost than he’s ever been.

He catches sight of his plants during one of his laps around his living room, and he pauses as a pit grows in his stomach. Slowly he reaches out at last, takes one off their shelf. The leaves have curled in on themselves, brown and rotten, breaking off into little pieces when he gently touches one in horror. He hadn’t been paying attention to them, had too many other things on his mind to remember to water them every day, and now they’re _dying_.

In a panic he hurries towards the sink, rummages furiously through his drawer for the scissors. But so _much_ of the plant is brown now, so much of it is taken over by rot and dry leaves and he’s not even sure if he can save it. The scissors get put down and the faucet turned on to a gentle trickle instead, and he holds the plant underneath.

“Please no,” he says, and he’s shocked at how desperate he sounds over such a small thing. “Come on, I haven’t—it hasn’t been _that_ long since I watered you, come on, man…” He soaks the soil through, but his hands are shaking as he tries to return the plant to its shelf, hopes that with water and sunlight it’ll be able to heal.

It’s a bad combination between his nerves and the wet ceramic of the pot. It slips through his fingers and he barely has time to gasp before it shatters all over the floor at his feet, spilling dirt and jagged, sharp pieces all over the carpet.

There’s a moment of quiet where James has to process what’s just happened, as he stares at the mess with wide eyes. The plant’s thin white roots are visible now, curled in all different directions and poking out through the dark wet soil slowly staining his carpet. The black of it is stark against the cream color, and before James has quite processed what he’s doing he’s _crying_ again, crying like a little bitch, just gazing down at the mess, at his little dead plant that wasn’t even _his._

Seven fucking months of being dead and _now_ is when his brain decides to finally have a breakdown. He slowly sinks to his knees in front of the mess, touches the soil with the tips of his fingers. Little clumps stick there, and there are still tears streaking down his face when he pulls out his phone again. He’s not sure what he’s doing, doesn’t know _what_ to do, doesn’t know who to reach out to so he just presses the first name he can think of and tries to breathe through the ringtone.

“James?” Brett’s voice is a little shocked. “...what’s up?”

“How do I,” James starts, and hiccups. “I dropped, dropped one of my plants and now the pot’s broken and my plant’s dying. How do I fix it?”

He’s sort of half expecting Brett to scoff at him, or dismiss him entirely. But he remembers the shelves of little succulents at Brett’s house, and he hopes that maybe Brett will take some fucking pity on him for once, won’t mock him for calling him at almost nine at night, crying about his plant. He doesn’t really know what else to do, or how he’s going to take it if Brett laughs at him.

But Brett’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again it’s still a little uncertain, but almost soothing.

“How big is it?”

James rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand, laughs bitterly.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about plants. Medium-sized?”

Brett chuckles at him, but it’s... fond. It’s a little tired, but it’s definitely fond.

“Alright. Text me your address,” he says, and his voice is tinged with kindness, with good humor. James sniffs, but he listens, writes out his apartment number and street. He can hear the buzzing from the other end as Brett gets his text, and then Brett’s saying that he’ll be right over, just be patient. James sits there on the floor in his living room, because he doesn’t know what else to do, just stares down at his phone and then down at his plant. He feels like he’s let it down, like he’s let Jane down, wherever she may be and whatever her actual name is. God, he killed her plant, after fucking _killing her_ and taking her apartment.

Finally he manages to gather enough sense to return to his bedroom, throw on some jeans and a t-shirt so he’s actually presentable to a damn guest. Then he sinks down into his couch, buries his face in his hands. Another hiccup pops in his chest and he just stays like that, his back bowed and his face shoved into his palms.

When there’s at last a knock on the door, getting up feels like the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. But he does, and Brett’s waiting on the other side when he opens it. He’s got a plastic bag hooked on one elbow, another one hanging from his other fist and he shakes his head at James when he catches sight of him.

“Jesus. How hard did it hit you today?” he asks casually, and James gets the feeling he’s not the first person to crack at the seams months after his death. He steps aside to let Brett in, and there’s a faint clanking as Brett shoulders the fridge open, places it on the top shelf where there’s a shamefully meager amount of food. “Anyway, where’s the patient? I’ve got just the thing to soothe those big fat crocodile tears.”

James wipes at his face again and scowls at him before leading him over to the mess. Brett crouches down and sets the bag next to himself, runs his fingers through the soil for a second or two. The other bag crinkles as he rummages through it, pulls out a pot just a little bigger than the old one and a half-used bag of gardening soil. James hovers nearby, watches as Brett frowns at the browned leaves but carefully pours soil into the pot, picks the plant up far more gently than James was expecting.

“I don’t know,” he says after a minute, and James watches as he replants it, fingers working to gently pack the soil back in around the roots. “Looks like this little guy might not make it, James.”

“I forgot to water them,” James replies, and his voice is softer than he means it to be. “I just. Fuck. I _forgot_.”

“Go ahead and untwist your panties, it happens. It’s not like I’m mad,” Brett says, and straightens up again. There’s nothing accusatory in his tone, and James watches as he works his way through the plants. Brett has strong hands, but the way he handles the plants is delicate and careful; James’s eyes follow his movements as he gingerly takes each plant off the shelf one by one, inspects them with a critical eye.

“Some of these can probably be saved,” he says finally. “But you’ve got to repot some of them, they need more room to grow.”

James, who has literally never raised a plant in his entire life before now, sniffs and then laughs. Brett either doesn’t really notice the laugh or doesn’t care. He doesn’t clean up the mess of soil or the ceramic pieces scattered on the carpet, which James didn’t expect him to, but instead he reaches into the bag and pulls out another small, white pot. This one has a succulent in it, tiny, green and tinged with pink. He sets it up on the shelf too, right next to the other plants, and James stares at it.

“What’s...” he starts, trails off, and Brett shrugs, looks over at him.

“You don’t have to water those as much,” he says casually, as if he did this every day. “Anyway, I have plenty of them, figured maybe you could use one, too. Call it a gift.”

It’s a lovely gesture, and it’s _kind,_ it’s kind enough to stop James a little bit in his tracks. He’s barely looking human, he’s still got red cheeks and watery eyes and his hair is a mess, _he’s_ a fucking mess, and now his boss is giving him gifts and helping him rescue his plants and suddenly James has literally no idea what direction he’s supposed to go anymore.

“...thanks,” he manages, Brett shrugs again, scratches at the nape of his neck as he walks back over to the kitchen. James watches him go, watches as he pulls the plastic bag down on either side of the cardboard box and James recognizes it for what it is. A six pack of bottled beer, relatively cheap shit all things considered, but as he holds one of the bottles out towards James he takes it gratefully. Brett’s already twisted the cap off and James takes a swig of it.

He hasn’t had very much alcohol since he died; mostly just a beer now and again at Joe and Trevor’s, hasn’t even gotten a drink with Aleks yet. It’s weirdly like camaraderie, something he hasn’t really experienced with Brett, and he sinks back onto his couch with the beer between his fingers. The beer’s kind of cold, condensation dripping between his fingers as he stares at it, and he can feel the shift as Brett sits down on the couch next to him and regards him curiously.

“You wanna talk about it?” Brett asks after a while, drinks from his own bottle.

James can’t help but chuckle weakly, turning his around slowly in his hand, runs his finger down the gritty texture of the paper label. There’s a _lot_ they could talk about, and James can’t really tell the truth for all of it, so he settles for rolling his eyes up to the ceiling to try and keep his emotions at bay. He stares for a long moment, breathing, and then takes another drink.

“I dunno, man,” he says quietly. “I think I just sort of, like, snapped.”

“I kind of figured that was the case,” Brett says easily. “You don’t usually call me in tears about a plant. You don’t usually call me at all,” he adds rather thoughtfully. He’s got one arm thrown over the top of the couch, completely at home, and he just gives off the impression of being comfortable. “Anything start it?”

James shrugs.

“A bunch of things,” he mutters, dodging having to really answer the question. He takes another drink of beer, almost winces at the taste of it simply because it’s just been so long. “I think the plant was kind of just, like, you know. The breaking point.”

“I didn’t think you’d even have plants,” Brett says around the lip of his bottle, and James can see his eyes as he looks up at the shelf again, flicking between each pot.

“They’re not mine. They’re Jane’s.” When Brett gives him an odd look, James glances back down at his bottle, then gestures with it towards the bookshelf. “Jane Austen. The lady this apartment belonged to before me, I forgot her name but she… she liked those books, she had like… literally all of them so. That’s what I started to call her. I dunno.” He can’t help but sigh loudly, roll his eyes. “Dude, I fucking hate Jane Austen, man.”

He’s not sure why he shares that little tidbit, and especially with _Brett_. It had been a stupid thing he’d come up with in his head, a little joke because he got sick of referring to her as “The Previous Occupant” and he couldn’t for the life of him remember her name, so fuck it, man. Jane. It was easy to come up with, and it made it feel like he wasn’t a callous asshole stealing a dead woman’s apartment because she died.

When he looks over at Brett, expecting mockery, instead he gets that same look from their reap together. Unreadable, curious maybe.

“What,” he says, wrinkles his nose, and Brett shrugs, takes a sip again.

“I just think,” Brett says, stops like he’s considering, takes another long drink from his bottle instead of continuing.

James squints at him. “ _What?_ ”

Brett shrugs, hums into the bottle so that it echoes inside, reverberates. They sit there in silence while James glares at Brett to try and get him to talk and Brett just stares off into the middle distance, bottle pressed against his lips in thought. He taps it, once, twice, and it’s only when James starts to whine again, “ _Brett,_ what the fuck?” that he finally continues.

“I just think you’re… soft,” Brett says, like he’s settling on the word. James has half a second to react before Brett chuckles at the look on James’s face, his handsome grin pressed against the lip of the bottle. He always looks so much younger when he smiles, the decades upon decades that live in his eyes fading away. “I just mean that you’re sentimental, calm the fuck down.”

“ _Sentimental_?” James squawks, wants to chuck his bottle at Brett’s head so it conks right off his skull. “What in the _fuck_ does that mean?”

Brett gestures at the shelf with his beer hand, at the plants neatly lined up on the shelf above them. “You kept the plants, you kept the books, you called me up because you broke a pot. I’m just saying, you’ve got a sentimental streak a mile wide. It’s, you know, it’s sweet.” James does hit his arm that time. “Ow. Dick.”

“I’m not sentimental,” James says, as if he hadn’t spent less than an hour beforehand crying over his own Facebook page, like he didn’t burst into tears at the sight of his dog. He’s got to save _some_ of his own dignity. “I just—what kind of fucking dick ruins someone else’s plants?”

Brett shrugs, a little dramatically, takes another swig of beer. James scowls a little at him, shifts around on the couch and shoves his bare foot against Brett’s shoulder.

“Get out of my damn apartment.”

“I bring you beer and rescue your plants and this is how you thank me?” Brett asks, swaying easily with the motion of James’s kick and laughing. “Ew, gross, get your foot off me.”

“You’re the worst,” James complains loudly, still almost on his back and nudging Brett away from him on the couch. He feels a little better for it, feels less like he’s going to split apart at the seams just from sheer loneliness and more like he’s just got rocks weighing down his stomach. Brett gives the top of his foot a firm slap, just enough to make James yelp and scootch away on the couch again.

“So,” Brett says, while James mutters under his breath and situates himself, “we’ve got beer, we’ve got good company. What’s on your mind?”

James hesitates, looks down into the bottle for a bit before he decides to tell Brett the truth—or at least, an edited down version of it.

“I saw my dog, and my friend,” he admits. “Uh, they were at the park when I was walking back from my reap and I guess I just… I guess I wasn’t expecting that to be as fucking painful as it ended up being, you know?”

Brett hums thoughtfully, nodding his head.

“That sucks,” he offers up, distant, and James laughs a little at it.

“Yeah, it fuckin’ does.” He finishes off the beer, sets it down on the coffee table with a clunk. “They seemed happy. And I wanted to be jealous but I just… I don’t know. I felt _sad._ ” It already feels like too personal of an admission, so he tries his best to keep it light. “It fucking blows. He has my dog, man. My _dog._ ”

The noise that Brett makes is like a slow exhale, deeper than a sigh, and James watches as he reaches back and then underneath himself. He takes out his wallet, brown leather, looks old as fuck, and James watches as he digs around for a second or two before he unearths an ancient photograph. The edges are a bit bent, and as he hands it to James it’s clear just how old the picture actually is.

He stares at it for a moment, holds it like it’s an artifact. Something tells James that there’s a lot of trust implicit in Brett giving him this photograph, so he’s careful with it. It’s a picture of a bunch of young men standing in front of what James recognizes from old history classes as a utility vehicle. They’re all in army uniforms, and the faded black and white of the picture makes it easy for him to guess which war it’s from.

Brett’s easy enough to spot. He looks dashing, bright and charming smile familiar from underneath his army cap, and one of the other men has his arm around Brett’s shoulders, bringing him in close. They look young and happy, despite their obvious circumstances, and James swallows a bit thickly as he stares down at the picture. For the first time, he truly feels like a child in Brett’s presence.

“Half of the men in that picture died a week later,” Brett says calmly, and he’s still sitting with his arm around the top of the couch. But the implication in his words is clear, and James’s chest clenches. “I got this picture from…” Brett leans forward, points at the man standing at Brett’s left. “Him. He gave it to me, said he kept it all those years so he could remember how _happy_ we all were.” When he laughs, it sounds as old as the picture. “Because you know, war is such a gleeful time to be alive.”

James slowly gives it back, tries to take in that information.

“How did you get it?” he asks quietly, and Brett sighs loudly as he takes the photo, looks down at it.

“I got transferred to Natural Causes for a couple of years, back in 2003,” he explains, and even now it sounds like a burden he’s had to bear, a weight he can’t quite get rid of. “Which wasn’t that big of a deal, I guess, not at first, but then I got assigned him for my reap and it went downhill pretty quick.”

James stares for a moment, unsure.

“Did you… do it?” he asks.

Brett’s smile is bitter as he looks down at the picture.

“Of course I did. You can’t exactly say no.”

“What happened?”

Brett purses his lips as if in thought. “We talked. He was in an assisted living place, so it wasn’t all that hard to go find him. He had a daughter, and a granddaughter, but most of his family was dead or didn’t care. It happens,” he adds, when James looks horrified. “Anyway, he, uh, he told me I looked just like someone he fought in the war with.”

“Did he know it was you?” James asks quietly. He feels like he’s being trusted with a secret, and he’s not sure how he feels about it.

“No. He gave me the photograph to show me my own face, which is kind of morbidly funny when you think about it, and I just… took his soul. Easy as that.” His tone implies a clear irony, that it wasn’t nearly so easy, and James sinks a little into the couch, considers that for a moment while Brett continues. He still sounds so casual, sounds like he could be talking about the weather, or his lunch. “Walked outside, got in my car and boom. There was my own fuckin’ face in the mirror. Just like the one in the picture.” He laughs then, finishes off his beer too. “I asked if I could get put back on External Influences real quick after that shit.”

James is silent for a long moment, taking that in as he tries to process it. He doesn’t need an explanation for why Brett was able to see himself in the mirror at last, after nearly sixty years of someone else’s face. The last person Brett ever knew in life, dead and gone. Fuck.

“Fuck,” James says out loud, and Brett laughs.

“The moral of that story,” he says, “is that we’ve all gone through some fucking shit. Even me. Don’t think for a second you’re alone in this, or that you _have_ to do it alone.”

That almost brings a smile to James’s face as he gets up and grabs the beer out of the fridge to bring it over to the coffee table, really tries to consider what Brett’s just told him. Seeing Jordan and Ein had been hard enough, and Seamus even worse before that. James cannot conceptualize what it would be like to have to _reap_ one of them, to have to take that part of his own life out of the equation in such a final way. The beers hiss when he pops the cap off, the hem of his t-shirt wrapped around it, and he hands it to Brett, sits back down on the couch.

“Can we get drunk?” he asks abruptly. He’s never drank enough as a reaper to know.

“If you mean can we get drunk _right now,_ I’m not necessarily opposed to it,” Brett says easily, “but if you mean, do we have the capacity to get drunk, that is a yes. Drunk, stoned, tripping balls, all of the above.”

“Thank God,” James replies, and nearly drinks the bottle in one go.

Brett whistles.

“Slow down, tiger. You want to gently ease your way into alcoholism.” Still, he takes a deep drink of his own, too. “Or, well, you can’t be an alcoholic, technically. You know what I mean.”

“Why not?” James asks, because he’s full of questions, and he wants answers, and it’s been so long since he’s had alcohol at _all_ that his liver’s acting like a pussy bitch and has already decided that he’s going to start feeling warm and fuzzy. “I mean, what the fuck is this whole thing, anyway? Why am I me but not me?”

“You’re you,” Brett says patiently, like he’s had this discussion before. He probably _has_. “You’re your soul, just with a shiny new outer layer. You can’t really be an alcoholic because you’re a _soul,_ not a human. At least, that’s how I assume that whole thing goes.”

“But no one else can see _me_ ,” James continues, finishes off the beer. It’s a bad move, and he knows it. “Like, I get that part, but it still sucks. I want to see me.”

“Who wouldn’t want to see that beautiful mug.”

“Shut up. I miss my _face._ ” James frowns, a deep line forming between his brows. “I want my damn face back.”

Brett doesn’t say anything to that, and James leans back on the couch, closes his eyes as he sighs deeply. Then opens them again, stares up at the ceiling blankly. Part of him thinks he should tell Brett the whole truth, should tell him everything, drink as many beers as he can in one go and then blurt out the whole thing before he can stop himself. Maybe that’ll save his ass, or at least get it all out of the way.

Maybe he should just come clean. He looks down into the almost empty bottle, considers his options.

“Shit’s fucked,” he says finally, swirls the bottle a bit and watches the liquid swish around at the bottom, make little bubbles from the carbonation foam there.

“Sure enough is,” Brett agrees. “That what else got you so freaked out?”

James hums, furrows his eyebrows together.

“I think so,” he says, remembers the waiter, remembers how Aleks had kept him from falling after their date. He thinks of Aleks’s friend, the one he had mentioned had seen the car accident. It hadn’t seemed like such a big deal at the time, but now… now James has to wonder. He remembers the conversation from earlier, the one with Trevor and Joe. “The gravelings killed that person yesterday, right? Joe said that’s happened before.”

“...sort of,” Brett says, almost hesitantly, like he doesn’t want to give the information out. Maybe everyone’s keeping secrets, and James shifts in his seat. “Joe also has the distinction of getting to witness it firsthand. It was a shitty situation all around.”

James considers that for a long time, pieces together what he knows before he asks the question.

“Did Trevor miss appointments?” he asks.

Brett doesn’t turn his head, but rather his eyes flick to stare at James, and there’s a hardness in his gaze that hadn’t been there before. James immediately gets the intense gut feeling that he’s just Fucked Up somehow, and he shrinks back a bit.

“Who told you that?” Brett replies finally, and his tone is oddly soft and calm for how angry his eyes look.

“No one” James says hurriedly, trying to backpedal and talking too fast, “I just, we were talking about it this morning, and Trev didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and, dude, I’m just trying to figure shit out, okay, I didn’t mean to, uh, to pry or ask questions, you know, I wasn’t supposed to—”

“James.” Brett’s voice is firm, but the hard look is gone; he seems almost relieved as he reaches for two new beers, hands one to James. “Calm down. Seriously.”

It’s a lot better than what he expected, and he takes another much longer drink than he probably needs to. He kind of wishes they had actual alcohol right now, because his stomach is turning hot, painful flipflops with how nervous he is. Brett drinks quietly from next to him, the only sound the gentle swish of their beers. It’s a weird silence, sort of awkward because James doesn’t know what to say.

“Trevor _was_ a missed appointment,” Brett says finally, and the world seems to stand still.

James has to blink, stares for longer than he knows he should. He thinks of Aleks immediately, and it takes more effort than it should for him to speak again.

“He—what?”

The bottle clinks as Brett leans forward and puts it down, runs his hands down his face, up again, then through his hair. He looks exhausted by the thought of it, and as James watches his motions with a horror starting to grow in his chest, Brett interlocks his fingers against his own lips, stares at the wall for a moment or two.

“It’s not a story you tell at a party,” he says, and James wants to curse and yell. He needs to _know._

“What happened?” he asks, tries not to sound so urgent. “Dude, you still haven’t told me what happens when someone misses an appointment. Is Trevor _okay_?” He wants to know because of Aleks, he _has_ to know because of Aleks, but the depth of feeling he sees in this situation makes him worried for his friend, too. Brett looks… tense, mostly, runs his hands across his own neck to meet at his nape.

It’s what James has needed to know for over a month, it’s what he’s been seeking out since he first fucked up, since he saved Aleks’s life and _found out_ what he’d done, and now he’s here. Now he’s here and he has to know, he’s _going_ to know, and the fear of it has him locked in place, staring at Brett wide-eyed.

“What happens when you leave milk in the fridge for too long?” Brett asks finally, and James pauses.

“I don’t understand,” he says, but when Brett looks over at him, he tries to think. “Uh. It goes bad?”

“It goes bad.” Brett’s gaze is distant as he slides back over to the wall again. “It curdles, and it spoils, and if you don’t throw it out it starts to make everything else smell like shit, too. And wouldn’t you know it, the same thing happens to souls. The body stays alive and well but the soul…” He laughs, and it’s bitter again. “It just… withers and dies inside of them.”

James feels like the world isn’t underneath him anymore. He feels like he’s drowning, fingers tightening where he’s grabbed a hold of the couch. He doesn’t remember doing that. He doesn’t remember grabbing the couch at all. The beer in his stomach turns, makes him sick. He can feel his heart beating too hard, but he hears it muted, as if through headphones. It seems far away, his heartbeat. He doesn’t know what to think, what to do. All he knows is that he’s staring at Brett with the slow and terrible realization of just what it is he’s done.

_Rot._

The headaches, the weird mood swings, the exhaustion. The way that Aleks had stared at him that morning. Had Aleks just been hiding it from him?

“What happened?” he asks, tries to sound calmer than he feels. He’s not sure that he can _feel_ anything, though, at least not anything other than the sudden numbing panic that’s spread itself down to the tips of his toes.

Brett shakes his head, looks over at James with a tired expression.

“Upper Management fixed him up. He was supposed to be with us anyway, so I guess it wasn’t that big of a deal, but...” he trails off, shrugs his shoulders as he drinks from his bottle again. “Like I said. Not a fun story to tell.”

James feels like he’s going to start hyperventilating soon, and he takes another long drink too. His hand is shaking.

“That sucks,” he finally manages.

Brett huffs out a laugh.

“ _That sucks,_ he says. How articulate.”

“It does, it sucks,” James tries to defend himself. The pool of anxiety is growing. He needs to see Aleks, needs to really _see_ him, make sure that he’s okay but it’s already late at night and Aleks is probably still pissed off at him. Fuck. _Fuck._ “I don’t… I don’t know what you want me to say, man. That’s—you dropped a bomb.”

“You asked,” Brett shrugs, but he must notice the expression on James’s face, because he leans closer a little. “You okay?”

“...I’m a little freaked out,” James says. “What does that have to do with the gravelings, though?”

“You’re full of questions tonight,” Brett complains then, and tilts his head back to finish off his bottle. When he resurfaces, he seems to consider the box for a moment thoughtfully before deciding against it. Instead he sighs, sets the empty bottle next to the other ones. “I don’t know why the gravelings are so pissed off. That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“I thought,” James says, has to gather himself, “I thought Joe said this happened before.”

“Sort of. It’s complicated.” Brett sighs, sounds a bit irritated now. “They’ve never gone after people with, like, this sort of anger so everyone’s just trying to figure it out. You know?”

James slumps up against the couch and sighs, slumps into the cushions before he leans forward again to clunk his beer bottle next to Brett’s. They’re quiet for a while, neither one of them reaching out to get more beer, neither one of them really sure what to speak about. James wants to take his phone out, wants to call Aleks immediately but he know it’d be suspicious. He has to see him, first thing after his reap. He _has_ to, he has to—he has to _know._

When Brett leaves, he tells James to keep the beer, waves it away when James tries to decline the offer.

“Whatever else is up with you,” he says, and James’s heart clenches as Brett reaches out and cups the back of his neck, just like he’s seen Brett do to the others, “figure it out and come talk to me. Alright?” When James won’t meet his eyes, Brett ducks his head, makes sure that their gazes connect. “James?”

“Yeah,” James mumbles, and color rises in his cheeks. “Yeah, alright.” He’s a fucking liar. When Brett smiles at him again, it’s completely without suspicion, and somehow that makes the shame worse.

He has to fix this somehow. If Upper Management fixed Trevor, maybe they can fix Aleks. He doesn’t know how he could possibly appeal to them, doesn’t know what even _happened_ to Trevor, except—

 _Rot._ The word reverberates in his mind as he puts the beer away, as he slowly gathers up the soil and shattered remains of his old pot into the garbage. One of the piece nicks his finger and he hisses, stares at the little spot of blood welling up there. _Rot._ Over and over again in his head. _Rot rot rot._ By the time he’s thrown out the soil and washed his hands, the little pinprick has healed as if it were never there. He stares down at his hand, runs his thumb over where the little cut had been as he thinks of Aleks, of his pretty brown eyes that crinkle when he laughs.

If it’s true, if that’s what’s happened—

James takes out his phone, finally finds Aleks’s name in his contacts and stares at it, hovers over it. He wants to press it, wants to answer all the calls that Aleks has been blowing his phone up with all afternoon. He must be absolutely pissed, must be furious that James has been ignoring him. The thought of it keeps him from calling, and instead with a frustrated growl he chucks his phone onto the bed and then follows after it, screams into his pillows.

It’s one long note of sorrow that he can’t keep out. What the fuck is he going to do? What the fuck. What the fuck. The picture Brett had painted is… it’s vivid. _Curdling_. He’s touched souls. He’s handled people’s souls, albeit not with an always delicate hand, but he’s done it. They’ve always been warm against his fingers, pulsing with life. He can’t imagine them withered, like his plants. He can’t imagine that… that that could have happened to Trevor, to _Aleks._

He turns his head slowly on the pillow until he’s staring out the window instead, half of his face still pressed into the soft fabric. He stares out the window, sighs until all the air is out of his lungs. It’s dark in his bedroom, dark outside as well, and the moonlight casts white slats against his carpet. Down below, a car honks and someone shouts a curse in response.

“Stupid,” he whispers, and thinks of Aleks’s hand in his, thinks of the smell of Aleks’s hair, thinks of how soft his lips were against James’s. The pillow grows a bit wet under his cheek. “You’re stupid. You stupid fucking asshole. You fucking idiot.”

He falls asleep like that, after muttering to himself like a jackass. But he wakes up firm, with the decision that he’ll go visit Aleks at his job, he’ll go talk to him, he’ll go _see._ He needs to go make sure that Aleks is okay, that he’s still the same as he was when they first met. He shoves a new t-shirt over his head, throws on his jacket, runs out the door before he can stop himself.

 _Rot,_ his brain whispers. _You fucking idiot. Rot. You selfish fuck._ It’s like a record that won’t stop spinning in his head, over and over again. _Rot._ He’s a fucking mess, and he knows it. He _knows_ it. He hasn’t bothered with trying to straighten himself up and as he shoulders through the crowds he’s aware he probably looks like a madman but he doesn’t _care._ He’s barely a hair behind Trevor and Joe, and it’s only when he’s actually sat down and refused any breakfast that he realizes for the first time just how crazed he must look.

“You… you doing alright?” Joe asks carefully from next to him, and James runs his hands through his hair. It’s sticking out in places, the curls going absolutely wild from where he hadn’t bothered to brush it in the morning. Brett and Trevor are staring at him too, with varying levels of confusion.

James spreads his fingers on the tabletop and swallows.

“Uh,” he says. “Yeah. Yeah, no, I’m good.”

“...you sure?” Brett asks after a moment, and he’s giving James a very odd look, like he’s wondering if James polished off the rest of the beer after he left. James clears his throat and nods, very resolutely does not look at Trevor once. Instead he tries to wait as calmly as he can for Brett to give him his Post-It, and as soon as it’s in his hand he’s up and out again with barely a goodbye.

“James—” Joe calls after him, but James ignores it, just keeps going out the door.

How he even gets to his reap, he doesn’t know. It’s all a blur to him, a whirlwind in his mind that won’t let him think straight. He has a set destination, a fixed position now that he needs to get to. He doesn’t remember the game store that Aleks works at but he Googles it on his phone, stands in the middle of the crowded street as he tries to memorize the directions. It’s not that far, and then he’s moving fast, weaving through people with his mind buzzing. If he just _sees_ Aleks, if he can just see him and look into his eyes and know that he’s okay, that James hasn’t condemned him to this awful fate he can still scarcely understand, maybe his thoughts can stop in their tracks.

He doesn’t even know if Aleks is working today; that occurs to him when he reaches the glass doors, the big windows with all sorts of posters in them, the timeslots on the door that tell him the store’s not even open for another half an hour. He groans and lets his head thunk against the glass loudly, the door clanging a bit in its metal frame.

“Fuck,” he says out loud, knocks his head into the glass again. “Fuck!”

Of course it wouldn’t be open yet. Of _course_ he doesn’t know if Aleks is even working. It’s just a long list of oversights in his rapidly deteriorating afterlife, and as that list starts to grow he can feel the weight of it continuing to settle in his stomach.

He’s about to turn around, call it a bust and maybe just try to call Aleks instead when the door moves out from under his forehead and he nearly eats shit on the pavement.

“Jesus Christ,” he squawks, catches himself on the other still-closed door and then looks up, wide-eyed.

“Can I help you?” the guy there says. He’s got glasses and just the tiniest bit of scruff, and he’s looking at James with an eyebrow raised, and just a little bit like he thinks James might be insane. James wouldn’t blame him for that, given how he looks at the moment. He’s holding the door open a bit, and James clears his throat.

“Uh,” he says, “is. Is Aleks here?"

“Ah,” is the response. “You must be James, then.”

There’s a grin on his face now, and he beckons for James to follow him inside. James hurries after him, and the door slides shut again behind them. The guy keeps going all the way towards the desk towards the back, opens a door next to a big display of refurbished gaming consoles. He cracks it open a bit and bellows, “Aleks! Your boyfriend’s here!”

James immediately feels his face heat up. He hears scuffling around in the back and then Aleks is hurrying out from the back room, his cheeks bright pink and his eyes wide.

“Shut the fuck up, Sly,” he says hurriedly, and ah, so that’s Eddie, then. He turns to look at James, and there’s an unhappy frown on his face as he looks him up and down. “What do you want?”

He looks… James doesn’t know. He can’t really tell. He looks like he might not have slept a bit, looks like he still might have a headache but now that James can get a closer look at him he thinks he might look a bit paler than usual. It makes his hair look darker, makes him look even more striking somehow. Fuck, James is still totally in love with him. But other than those minor details he looks _fine,_ doesn’t look like—

“Hi,” he says a little breathlessly. “Can we talk?”

Aleks makes a face at him.

“Oh, now you wanna talk,” he mutters, but he pushes the door open behind himself. “Sly, gimme like five minutes.”

Well, James wanted more than five minutes, but he’ll take it either way. He doesn’t hear Eddie’s reply, instead chooses to follow after Aleks into the little back storage room. There are boxes and unopened games everywhere, and as soon as the door closes Aleks turns around, crosses his arms and looks at James expectedly.

“Well?” he says, and he definitely sounds tired. He could just as easily be tired of James’s bullshit, though. God only knows James is. “You gonna, like, I dunno, tell me what the fuck happened yesterday?”

“Can I just,” James says, stops, starts again. “I’m sorry, Aleks, I just. I’ve got a lot of shit going on. Can I just… look at you, for a sec?”

“That’s gay,” Aleks says immediately, but his cheeks go pink again. “Why?”

James just walks up instead of answering, and Aleks watches his motions a bit warily. But he doesn’t move when James steps up to him, stands his ground and just lifts his chin a bit. Up close, there are bags under his eyes, but they’re as lively as ever, still that pretty brown. He’s got scruff on his lip, a bit along the line of his jaw, and it’s endearing.

He cups Aleks’s cheek gently, and his skin is warm. He can tell that Aleks is still angry at him, but he still presses his face a little into his palm, sighs deeply and lets his eyes slide closed. He looks exhausted then, like he hasn’t slept very much at all, and James can feel his lips moving against his skin when he talks.

“I didn’t do something, did I?”

And damn, does that nearly break James’s heart. He shakes his head, cups his other hand on the free side of Aleks’s jaw line.

“I’m just being a fucking idiot,” he says, and Aleks’s mouth twists into something almost like a smirk. “Can I just fucking kiss you and then we can talk at least?”

“You’re gross,” Aleks tells him, but he leans forward anyway to press their lips together. It’s comforting, how familiar it is, and James, for one precious moment, doesn’t even remember why he’s here in the first place. He just presses close to Aleks and keeps his face in his hands, opens his mouth a little to deepen the kiss.

“You can’t just kiss away every argument if this is gonna work,” Aleks mumbles against his lips, and shatters the illusion again. James doesn’t even know if it’ll work, if he can even keep it up at all. “That’s not how this works, dude.”

James has an answer for him, but the door opens behind them instead.

“Listen,” Eddie says, and Aleks groans and shoves James away a little bit to turn and glare at him. “Don’t give me that look, Aleks. All I’m saying is that we’re not even open yet and you’ve got, like, multiple gentlemen callers. Maybe save this shit for home?”

“What the fuck?” Aleks says immediately, and the confusion in his tone is… comforting, somehow. Gentlemen callers? What the hell does that even mean? “Who’s here?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie says, but just nods his head towards whoever’s waiting outside. “In here.”

James has half a second to comprehend it when Joe walks in through the door. He looks frazzled, and a little winded, and as he looks between James and Aleks there’s a realization growing in his eyes. James immediately pushes Aleks away, more out of instinct than anything else, and Joe runs his fingers through his hair.

“Oh, James, _no,_ ” he says softly. “You fucking didn’t.”

“...who the fuck is this,” Aleks says slowly, looking between James and Joe. For the first time in his damn life, James picks up the implications instantly, realizes that Aleks isn’t asking who Joe is, but who he is _to James._ It’s mortifying, and probably a little funny if James could actually feel any sort of humor right now. All he feels is numb horror, staring at Joe, and Joe stares right back at them. From behind Joe and Aleks, Eddie shuts the door with a click, and there’s a look in his eye that says he’s ready to step up if Aleks needs him to.

“He’s a friend,” James says hurriedly. “No, no, he’s just—this is Joe, he’s one of my friends from work. That’s all. I swear to God, Aleks.”

“We’re just friends,” Joe says, and it sounds weak as he stares at James, as he looks between the two of them again. “This is what you’ve been doing, James? Seriously?”

“I can explain,” James says, hands thrown up placatingly. He’s not even sure who it is he’s talking to, and more importantly, he _can’t_ explain, not to either one of them. If he explains it to Joe, he condemns himself immediately. If he explains to Aleks, he sounds like a lunatic. “I, I know it’s fucked, I know, just—Joe, _please._ ”

“James,” Joe says, slowly, “we need to have this conversation, and we need to have it fast, dude. This is bad.”

“What the _fuck,_ ” Aleks says louder, and now he sounds angry, he sounds _furious_ like James has never heard him before. James can see how Aleks looks between the two of them, can see now that Eddie’s walked around to stand next to him, providing silent but clear backup. “James, what the fuck is this?”

“I,” James says, practically chokes on it, tries to turn it around. “Joe, what in the hell are you even doing here?”

“I _followed you,_ because you’ve been acting weird for _weeks,_ ” Joe says immediately, and there’s accusation in his tone. He looks agonized. “And now I know why, and you, you’ve been going behind _everyone’s backs_ —”

“What the fuck!” Aleks repeats, and now it’s more like a bellow. Oddly, his voice goes lower when he shouts. “What the _fuck,_ am I, like, some big fucking secret? Your big gay crisis, what the fuck, James!”

“No!” James says immediately, turning back to Aleks with his hands out. Aleks looks furious, and there are—there are angry tears in his eyes. His eyes crinkle up when he’s angry, too, James notes kind of numbly. “No, no, Aleks, that’s not what this is, I swear, it’s, it’s _complicated—_ ”

“It’s _complicated,_ ” Aleks mocks, and his voice breaks. “Oh, _fuck you_ , James.”

James goes to defend himself, stammering out some kind of reply, but Eddie finally speaks instead.

“I think it’s time you guys go,” he says firmly, and he moves for the door when Joe suddenly freezes. He looks in that direction, eyes wide. He looks like a bloodhound that’s caught a scent, and he flaps his hands at everyone with an urgency.

“Wait,” he says, and it’s quiet. “Wait. Do you hear that?”

“Hear what,” Eddie starts to say, sounding a little impatient, but James shushes him next because he hears it too. A crackling, distant and faint. The blood leaves Joe’s face all at once, and the look of horror on his face is instantaneous. He stares at the door, and James watches as he reaches out slowly and wraps his hand around the knob.

“ _Fuck—_ ” He jerks his hand back immediately, a snap of movement. “Oh, fuck. James.”

“What is it,” James says, immediately hurrying up next to him, and after a moment Aleks and Eddie follow. Joe’s just shaking his head, taking a deep breath as he pulls his sleeve over his hand and grips the doorknob again. In the back of his mind James already knows what Joe’s doing, but it’s not until he sees the smoke that’s begun to curl out from underneath the door.

“Oh, shit,” James says, and his hand immediately goes out to twist into Aleks’s shirt. “Oh, shit. Oh fuck.”

“What,” Aleks asks then, doesn’t move away from James’s hold. Eddie echoes the question, but James is focused the smoke, focused on where Joe is taking several deep breaths.

“Just… move fast.” James swallows, looks over at Eddie. “There’s no other way out?”

“What’s going on?” Eddie asks, rather than answer the question, but it looks as if he and Aleks have started to catch up. The smoke is getting thicker now, and the crackling louder. Joe takes another deep breath and takes his hand away, paces in one tight little circle.

“Dude, maybe we should just, just wait it out,” he says, and his tone is desperate, but before they have the time to even argue the choice, the door cracks down the center with a harsh _snap._

Everyone shouts at the same time as smoke fills the room immediately. James jerks both Aleks and Joe down to the ground instantly and Aleks grabs the front of Eddie’s shirt as well, the four of them tumbling to the ground as the fire crackles loudly just outside. Everyone’s cursing and yelling over the sound of it, but James can see the graveling as it crawls up the side of the wall, and it’s blood-red eyes lock immediately with his. James can recognize it, and he starts yelling.

“ _GO!_ ” he howls, and starts pulling and shoving. “Just go, just fucking go!”

“Through the _fucking fire_?” Aleks snarls at him, and his face is pale as one hand clutches James’s wrist and the other one twists in the collar of Eddie’s shirt. They’re the only ones who can be hurt in this, James realizes with horror. He and Joe are already dead, but if they don’t get Aleks and Eddie out, they’ll _die,_ and while James doesn’t know what’ll happen to Aleks he _does_ know what’ll happen to Eddie. He’s barely known the guy for fifteen minutes, and they sure haven’t gotten along so far, but no one deserves that.

The fire spreads quickly, and more gravelings crawl through the gap in the door and across the ceiling, howling all the while. Joe covers his ears, and even through the smoke that’s filling the room James can see how he’s shaking, can see how he curls in on himself. He remembers, then, in a rush. _House fire._

 _“JOE!”_ He can barely breathe. “Joe, I’m here! I got you! Come on!”

Joe shakes his head, face pressed tight to his knees, and above them a piece of the ceiling breaks off, burning with ash and fire and crumbling down around them. Everyone shrieks at the same time in terror, and finally James reaches out again, gathers the back of Joe’s shirt in his hand and _tugs._ He’s dragging everyone through the fire in some fucked up kind of chain, like the ones he used to have to endure in elementary school. He can feel Aleks clutching at him with his one hand, and they all stay low to the ground.

“Jesus,” he breathes, and starts coughing. The air is thick, coating the inside of his mouth with the acrid taste of fire. Everything around them burns, fiery and too hot, crackling as the flames eat away at everything in sight. Glass shatters somewhere and they all yell at the same time. He can hear Eddie and Aleks both shouting, but over the roar of the flames they can barely be heard. Joe seems to be moving only because James is pulling him.

It’s a small store, but it feels like it takes a lifetime just to try and get through the flames. Pieces of the ceiling keep falling around them, melted plastic from displays and games filling the air with thick fumes that burn James’s nose. It’s a hell he’s never experienced, hopes to never experience again. It hurts his eyes, hurts his throat, hurts _everything_ to be surrounded by flames at every angle.

When they reach the doors the glass has already been shattered and he shoves at everyone, panic sending the three of them out towards the curb. He crawls, tries to follow when he’s wrenched back by twisting hands in the leg of his jeans and he lets out a startled shriek, twists halfway to find that the gravelings have all gathered at his feet, are crawling over him and trying to pull him deeper into the fire.

“No,” he says, and then louder, panicking, “no no nonono oh fuck no—” He flails out an arm and grabs the first thing he can find. It’s a metal rod from one of the displays and it sears an angry red burn into the palm of his hand. He ignores it in favor of swinging it at the mess of gravelings at his feet, nails one right in the head. But his jacket sleeve caught fire when he reached out, and he can feel the flames licking up his arm.

It’s an unholy pain like he’s never known and he _screams,_ tries to twist and roll on the ground like he knows he’s supposed to. His jacket must not be real leather, then, he thinks sort of dimly. The pain feels unbearable as it flares up his arm and he rolls onto his back again, makes eye contact with the nearest graveling. It stares at him, just stares as the building burns around them, and James stares back.

_Oh._

James realizes in that moment that _he’s_ the one with the answer to so many questions. He knows why the gravelings are fucking everyone up, he knows why they’re so angry. He knows why they killed the waiter, and he knows why they’ve been popping up more and more.

 _He’s_ the one that made them angry when he made one.

It shrieks and leaps at him, and all James can do is flinch. Hands grab him then, twist into his jacket at the shoulders and with an almighty wail of exertion Joe pulls James out of the fire again, hauls him out the broken door where they crumple into a heap on the gravel, Joe’s hands furiously patting as fast as he can at the fire still burning James’s arm. There are people all around them, some of them screaming, most of them grabbing at the four of them to pull them away from the building as it burns.

Joe’s hands are still clutching at James, but the fire’s out on his arm and now Joe’s just grappling at him, and James reaches for him instantly.

“Joe, hey, hey,” James says urgently, and his hands look too big on Joe’s face where he’s got him caught up in his grip, trying to calm him down. Joe’s struggling, hyperventilating breaths that punch out of him with a soft whimpering gasp every time. His eyes are clenched tightly shut, and his hands come up to cover James’s. James ducks his head, just tries to look into Joe’s face. “Joe, Joe, I’m一I’m here, man. Hey.”

Joe nods, or tries to, but he looks very much in danger of breaking down right there in front of him. He’s never seen Joe like this before; Joe’s always calm, always warm, always friendly. Never like this. Jesus. Joe braved the thing that literally killed him just to help James, and all James can do is stand there and try in vain to soothe him as best as he can.

The fucking ambulances can always be counted upon, though. James can hear them wailing in the distance, and he knows he and Joe have to get out of there. He looks around immediately for Aleks, tries to find him, needs to know that he’s _safe._ He looks around and finds Eddie and Aleks in a similar state, Eddie checking Aleks all over while Aleks just shakes and shakes, but when they turn to see James stumbling to his feet, Aleks runs over immediately.

“Oh, fuck,” James chokes out, and he’s never been so relieved in his life. Aleks looks like he wants to run immediately into his arms but he stops, his eyes growing wide with horror.

“ _Jesus_ , James!”

Aleks’s voice is pitched high, and it’s clear he’s trying not to grab too hard at him. For a second James doesn’t even understand, but then pain flares up his right arm and he yelps loudly, tugs his arm up against his chest in shock. Aleks looks at him, hands held up, and he’s wide-eyed and pale and covered in soot and he looks so fucking _scared_ that James feels guilt swirling in his stomach.

“I’m, I’m fine,” James says in a rush, cradling his arm, but Aleks scoffs. He sounds like he’s a hair short of panicking, and James can’t blame him.

“James, you need a fucking hospital!”

“I’m一” James tries to say, but there’s another swell of pain and he winces, finally looking down at his arm. His jacket’s right sleeve has been burned clean away, nearly up to his shoulder, and the shirt underneath. He’s had the jacket for years, _years,_ and the pang of loss hits him hard and strong.

It’s a fucking nightmare. His skin’s black and peeling in places, shiny burns and pulpy muscle in others. It looks… it looks fucking awful, it looks like something straight out of a horror movie, and even if he knows that it’s going to heal over within the hour he can’t tell Aleks that. To him, it looks like James is in serious danger of gangrene, or worse, just losing the whole arm entirely. Fuck.

“I can take him.”

Startled, James turns to find Joe staring up at him, still wide-eyed. He looks like a fucking ghost, black smears of ash all over his face and his skin nearly white, but he seems to have gathered himself again. He doesn’t look as completely to-the-core terrified, and once again, James has no words strong enough for how grateful he feels to have Joe.

“I’ll take you to the hospital, James,” he says, and his voice is stronger. “Come on.”

James turns to Aleks, who’s still visibly shaking, and God, _God,_ he doesn’t want to leave him but he _has_ to. If Aleks finds out that James’s arm is already healing一and boy, does he not want to think about how he’s going to cover that up一then that will raise a whole lot of questions that James simply doesn’t have the answer to.

He cups Aleks’s face with his good hand, tries to be in an appropriate amount of physical pain while he rubs at his cheek with a thumb. It leaves a strip of clean skin in its path, leaves more black on the pad of his thumb.

“I’m gonna go with Joe,” he says as softly as he can. “I need you to stay here; it’s gonna be okay. I promise.”

“James.” Aleks’s voice is quivering. “You can’t just fucking _leave me_ right now. Don’t leave. _Please,_ please don’t leave. The ambulance is coming, you can go with them. I’ll go with you, just—”

“I need to go,” James says, and it hurts. Every word hurts. Aleks is shaking his head, trying to chase after him but now Eddie’s there too, and he grabs Aleks by the wrist to keep him away. Aleks flails at him angrily, looks back at James with so much _fury_ in his eyes.

“Don’t fucking leave!” he snarls, and James swallows, starts to back away with Joe now tugging at his shirt again. The sirens are getting closer, and other people are trying to stop them from leaving as well. “Don’t fucking leave, James! I swear to God!”

He looks back at Joe, who shakes his head and pulls at him again. There’s no argument in his expression, and he turns back to Aleks. There are two clear stripes of skin running down Aleks’s cheeks, cleaning the soot off his face. He looks furious, and heartbroken, and confused, and James can see him shaking with rage as Eddie tugs him away again.

“If you fucking leave we’re _done_!” Aleks shouts, one last desperate attempt, and that gives James pause, that makes him stop and dig his heels into the pavement. He almost concedes, almost runs straight back to Aleks to kiss him, to tell him everything, damn the fucking rules, damn _everything._ “I mean it! _James!_ ”

He makes that eye contact with Aleks, sees that there’s truth in his eyes, that he means it. There’s no doubt in James’s mind that if he keeps going, Aleks will never speak to him again. They’ll never go on another date, he’ll never touch him again, never kiss him. The only way this could ever be solved is if James tells him the truth. If he leaves, he loses Aleks. If he stays, he loses Aleks, too.

Joe tugs at him again, and James feels his own heart break in his chest as he turns away again.

Aleks shouts something else at him but James blocks it out, and he follows Joe as they start to run down the street.

People try to stop them as they run, try to tell them that the ambulances are on their way but Joe just chatters something in a panic about his car and the hospital, and James tries to tuck his bad arm up and under his jacket so no one will see it. His ears are ringing, but the pain in his arm has faded. It’s more an inconvenience than anything else, and his grief seems to calm some of the pain receptors to his brain. He doesn’t let himself feel it, much as he hasn’t let himself feel anything lately. He thinks of the look on Aleks’s face, thinks of the pain in his voice as James fucking ran from him for the second time in two days.

What the fuck did he just do?

He’s about to ask Joe where they’re going when Joe slows to a halt, his hand still in James’s. James still feels numb, still feels as if nothing can touch him not out of a sense of invulnerability, but as if he’ll just simply never feel anything again. But he looks up, and… and James realizes that he can in fact feel things after all.

The two men standing in front of them just stare for a moment. The one he recognizes as the head of Suicide Division; his eyes are wide as he looks between the two of them, eyebrows raised, and his name surfaces after a second of blank thinking. _Bruce, his name is Bruce_ , James remembers that.

The other man is Brett.

With smoke billowing barely a block behind them, the two of them covered in soot, James’s arm still a fucking mess, it’s not hard to tell what they’re running from. Joe’s hand is shaking in his, and he slowly lets it go, feels the way that Joe’s arm falls to the side. Brett looks stunned as he stares at the two of them, and he starts to take a step forward.

“What the _fuck_ happened?” he asks, and it’s concerned, it’s almost panicked.

Joe’s silent from next to him, but he looks up at James like he doesn’t know what to say, and James swallows.

James thinks of everything he’s done the last month. He thinks of Joe risking himself to tug him out of the fire, he thinks of Brett showing him kindness where he hasn’t earned it. He thinks of everything everyone has given him, out of the goodness of their hearts. He hasn’t given back a _damn_ thing to any of them except for lies and deceit. He’s repaid their kindness with shit, and he nearly got people killed because of it.

People _have_ died because of it. He knows that now, knows it’s his fault, knows there will be others if he doesn’t come clean.

He thinks of Aleks, crying and swearing at him, begging him to stay. He thinks of Aleks staring up at him in the dark of his bedroom, fingers trailing slowly through his hair as he smiles up at him.

 _Rotting,_ his mind whispers. When he speaks again, it’s hoarse from the smoke, and the reality of what he’s about to do. But he speaks, and he says the words, and he hopes to God that Aleks is safe. He can feel Joe staring at him, can feel the confusion in Bruce’s gaze, but he stares at Brett alone, and he steels himself, and when he speaks again he feels as though he’s missed a step, the swoop in his stomach disorienting and strange.

But he speaks.

“I have something to tell you."


	11. i try to make the worst seem better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now, at last... brett finds out. thank you, everyone! ♥

“I’m gonna go get Kovic,” Bruce is saying as they round a corner. Brett’s leading James and Joe with a hand between their shoulder blades, firm and comforting at the same time. People are staring at the two of them, covered in soot and ash and James still hiding his ruined arm in his equally ruined jacket. It seems like neither Bruce nor Brett care, or even seem to notice. “They burned down the entire fucking _building_ , this is bullshit.”

“I’ll meet up with you after I take care of them first,” Brett tells him, and James hears it as if through a cloud. He had sort of intended his big reveal to be a bit more—dramatic, probably, is the best word for it. But Brett just steers them along, tells James that he can tell him when they’re somewhere private, somewhere that they can get cleaned up, that he can take a look at his arm. He’s already texted Trevor, he says, so Joe will be safe with him.

James wants to tell him _now,_ while he’s still got his nerve worked up. But then he remembers the shattered look in Aleks’s eyes, remembers his words—”we’re _done_ ”—and he knows. He’s got no choice. He can muster up the nerve because he doesn’t know what else he could possibly do anymore.

They part ways with Bruce after a few more blocks. He’s still looking a bit rattled by the state of James and Joe, but he claps Brett hard on the shoulder before he leaves.

“Watch yourself,” he warns, and he sounds serious enough that James can feel Brett’s hand tensing on his back. “This fucking hunting season isn’t over yet.”

Brett nods, his mouth a thin line. James watches the interaction sort of numbly, blinking a few times. He can still see Joe, standing and shaking a bit like a chihuahua. The gravity of the situation seems to have hit the both of them; James has never been in a fire before, never dealt with the sheer terror of it, of the adrenaline that ran through his veins so quickly that he can’t remember it now save for flashes, like a slideshow.

But Joe _has_ experienced a fire before, even if he says he doesn’t remember most of it. James can see it in his eyes; he looks beyond shook up, keeps closing his eyes and breathing in deep, lets it out in a shuddering sigh. The shame that James feels can’t be put into words, because after everything that Joe’s done for him, every kind word and calming hand, he’s the one who might as well have set the fire. He lied to Joe, and Joe was just trying to figure out what the fuck was even going on.

Trevor meets them halfway when they turn onto his and Joe’s street, and he looks almost as shook up as they do. James quickly looks away, can feel where Brett’s hand finally drops from his back.

“What the fuck,” Trevor says immediately, as soon as he’s close enough. His tone is pitched higher with shock, with a bit of fear. “What the fuck happened to you guys?”

“Gravelings,” is what Brett says, and cups Joe’s jawline in both of his hands, tilts his head up all the way so they can look in each other’s eyes. “You’re okay,” he says quietly, soothingly, and Joe nods, closes his eyes again. “You’re all right, Joe. I’m gonna leave you with Trev, and me and James are gonna go somewhere to talk. Yeah?”

Joe’s eyes flick over immediately, makes that contact with James that he had been a little afraid of. James can feel his own mouth tightening, but he nods. The numbness has started to spread, started to mingle with fear that’s rising in his chest. It speeds up his heart, makes him feel like he’s just missed the last step on a staircase.

But Joe must believe whatever he sees in James’s face, because he looks back at Brett.

“Okay,” he says quietly, and Brett gives him a gentle slap with one hand, just a tiny tap more than anything else.

Trevor still looks confused and more than a little horrified by the state of them, and his eyes track Joe a bit warily as he walks up to him. Joe just presses his sooty forehead to Trevor’s chest, leaves a streak of black on the gray of his sweatshirt, and James watches as Trevor relents, carefully wraps his arms around Joe’s shoulders. The difference in height between them makes the motion of it easy, and Joe’s almost covered immediately by Trevor’s embrace. It’s tender, almost, if not hesitant.

“We’ll be... home, I guess,” he says a bit awkwardly, like he’s not quite sure what to say. Joe just nods, and Trevor sways them both back and forth a little bit. Joe moves with the motion, even makes an appreciative little noise. For the first time, they’re both acting like the ages they look, and James has to swallow hard.

“Take care of yourselves,” Brett tells them, and his hand returns to the back of James’s jacket. “I’ll call you in a little bit. Come on.” This he says to James, who looks up at him, startled. “We’re gonna walk back to your place, it’s closer.”

“Okay,” James says, because he doesn’t know what else to do. He feels nothing but burbling shame in his stomach when he looks at Trevor, when he thinks for a moment how he had almost accused him of breaking the same rule he had. Trevor’s never had the healthiest look about him, but when James finally manages to look at him now he can see just how _exhausted_ he looks.

And again, he thinks of Aleks.

He lets Brett lead him down the sidewalks, lets him navigate the both of them so that they can make their way back to James’s building. Whenever James blinks he can see flickering flames beneath his eyelids, and he wonders sort of dimly if this is what trauma is like. He’s seen dead bodies and gore like no other, but getting trapped in a fire is the first thing in a long time that’s well and truly fucked him up. He still feels numb, still feels like his heart is trying to beat its way back out of his chest.

He wonders if Aleks is okay. If the paramedics are treating him now, if he’s worried about James’s arm. Maybe he’ll try to hunt down the hospital James is supposed to be in, but more likely than not he probably hates him and won’t ever speak to him again. That’s just as well. James hasn’t done much but ruin his life since he saved it, unwittingly or no.

From above them, the clouds get darker, start to settle and rumble gently in the sky. The weather had called for thunderstorms, and James looks up as a fat droplet of rain lands on his cheek and wipes a trail down to his chin. When it reaches his beard it shivers there for a second, and then falls to the sidewalk below. It’s gray from the soot, and James stares at it, is reminded of how Aleks had tear tracks that did the same thing.

“James, you gotta work with me here,” Brett says, sounding a bit huffy, and James looks over at him.

“What?”

“I need you to walk,” Brett says, and it sounds like he’s trying to be patient. “Come on.”

James tries to nod at him, starts to put more effort into putting one foot after the other. It’s harder than he thought it would be. Where is Aleks going to work, how is he going to get money? Does he hate James forever? Is he going to block his number, refuse to see him? How does James cope with knowing that protecting himself, and Joe, and his _team,_ his _friends_ , cost him Aleks? Fuck. _Fuck._ He doesn’t know how to fix this.

But maybe that’s why, at last, he’s finally telling Brett.

When Brett finally leads him into his building, James has to blink a couple of times. He can’t quite remember the journey that was made there, and he lets out a soft little inquisitive noise as Brett half-drags him into the elevator and presses the fourth floor button.

“You look like shit.” It sounds like Brett’s trying to make a joke, and that worsens James’s anxiety somehow. Brett doesn’t damn suspect a thing.

In a flash of panic, James wonders if he could lie again. Backtrack, pretend like he has something _else_ he could tell Brett—but the truth of the matter is that he simply doesn’t have anything he could come up with. And more to the point, as Brett leads him gently through the halls, he realizes that… he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to lie anymore. He just wants to help Aleks. He wants this weight off his chest.

“Where’s your key?” Brett asks, sounding distracted, and James has to blink a couple of times and ground himself back into reality before he can answer.

“Uh. Hold on.” He starts to search his pockets with shaking hands but when it proves fruitless, the tremor too much for him to even get into his pockets, he mumbles, “I, I have a spare key, up on the doorframe.”

Brett hums curiously, stands on his toes to search blindly for a moment before James can hear the scrape of metal on wood and Brett’s quiet, proud little “aha!” The door clicks open, loud in his ears, and then Brett’s pulling him into his apartment and shutting it behind them again.

From outside the rain starts to patter hard against his front window, and any other time it would be soothing as it streaks down the glass. James just stares as it drips down in rivets, until Brett gently but firmly pushes down on his shoulders and steers him towards his bedroom. He goes willingly enough.

“Take off your jacket and go get changed,” Brett tells him. “We’re gonna take a look at that arm, alright?”

James nods, looks back over at his arm again as he shrugs off the jacket, as Brett heads off somewhere towards the kitchen. It hurts to peel the melted leather off his wound, and he makes a soft, pained noise as he unsticks it from his arm. The wound’s disgusting, black and cracked skin surrounded by angry red, but as he stares down at it with numb horror he can already pick out the places where the muscle has started to regrow. Dimly he wonders if his tattoos will still look the same.

His jacket’s totally ruined. He holds it in front of himself, staring down at it with something like sorrow welling up in his chest. This jacket’s been with him through just about everything, and while his body might be able to fix itself up again, there’s nothing he can do about his clothes. It’s such a stupid little thing, it’s just a _jacket,_ but it’s one of the only things he was able to carry over from his life. Now it’s gone, just like everything else. Slowly he sets it down on his bed, a thickness in his throat as he stares at it before he starts shuffling around to find some jeans, a t-shirt. He feels helpless when he walks back out again, slowly sinks onto the couch with his face in his hands.

There’s another flare of pain in his arm and he winces, lowering it down again to let it rest on his thighs.

When Brett kneels down in front of him again, he’s a bit startled. But Brett just reaches for his arm, and handles it gingerly when James silently holds it out. It really doesn’t look good at all, and Brett hisses sympathetically as he carefully looks it up and down. James follows the movement with his eyes, but Brett must deem it ultimately okay because he sets his arm down again, picks up something else from the coffee table.

It’s a warm, wet washcloth, and he presses it into James’s left hand.

“Clean yourself off,” he says. “You can’t shower until your arm’s all healed up.”

James stares at the washcloth in his hands. It’s got little patterns of owls on it, something that must have belonged to Jane. His fingers leave long black streaks on the white fabric, and it’s almost amusing how his hands are filthy but there’s a clean line of skin where his sleeve had started.

Gloves, he thinks. They look like gloves.

Hesitantly he lifts the cloth, runs it over his cheeks. He can’t see a damn thing, and his hands have begun to shake, and finally Brett scoffs and takes the washcloth out of his hands, starts to run over James’s face instead. It comes away black with soot, and Brett’s movements are deliberate and careful. It’s the same motions he had used when he was taking care of James’s plants, and there’s a soft look in Brett’s eyes as he speaks.

“Jesus Christ, James. Did you fucking roll in it?”

That almost gets a laugh out of James, then, but instead he just closes his eyes as Brett runs the rag up his face again, squishes his cheek for a second as he works to get the ash off his face. The ministrations are more than he deserves, he knows it, but he can’t quite speak yet. He wants to bask for a moment longer in kindness he doesn’t deserve before he finally drops the other shoe.

They’re silent for a little while as Brett works the soot off his face. He must realize that James is trying to barrel face first into a catatonic state, because he keeps taking care of him. James raises his chin obediently when Brett gives it a gentle nudge, and the washcloth moves down his neck once or twice before heading back up to his face.

”You said you had something to tell me,” Brett says finally, trying to get James’s attention. James feels numb, but the words strike more fear into him. He had been so _determined,_ but living in that moment had been easy. Now the circumstances have changed, and his consequences are laid out before him, and if he comes clean to Brett then there’s absolutely no going back.

Just then, in his mind’s eye, Aleks smiles at him again.

He’s bathed in moonlight, and he’s alive, but for the first time James thinks he can see exhaustion there. All of the little signs that he hadn’t seen, that Aleks had hidden from him. The sudden temper tantrums, the headaches, the way he had seemed paler, everything that James had willfully chosen to write off or ignore. The accidents, the gravelings, everything that James pretended wasn’t happening so he could live on in this fantasy he’s created out of sheer fucking misfortune. He wasn’t supposed to save Aleks that day, and he _did,_ and he should’ve fixed that mistake instead of letting fear and pride guide his decisions.

Aleks deserves more than all of James’s lies. James knows that, as he looks up and stares at Brett’s face, at the look of concentration there as he works away all the soot and sweat from the fire. Aleks deserves someone to give a shit about _him,_ instead of the unobtainable happiness that James is trying to get out of him, and it’s like a door opening for the first time, a light clicking on in his head.

James is selfish. He knows that. He’s _always_ known that. But this time his selfishness has caused someone else a lot of pain, pain that he personally has brought into someone else’s life, and it’s time that he fixes this. Aleks has been a bright point in his life, it’s a love that he knows you don’t come across every day. And God, it fucking _sucks._ It sucks that James should find love in someone he was supposed to take to the other side instead. It sucks that his mistake brought about so much fucking misery to everyone else.

He’s goddamn selfish, and he knows it, and it’s time to make things right. It’s frightening, and it’s shameful, and James has never in his entire life wanted to do anything less. But he _has_ to, he fucking has to, and he knows that now, too.

”You know, it’s too bad you have a beard already,” Brett’s musing thoughtfully, and James’s cheek bunches against the washcloth as Brett finishes up cleaning off his face. “I could give you a little toothbrush mustache, you know, like—”

“I missed an appointment.”

The silence in the wake of James’s words is deafening, and Brett slowly lowers his hands. James can feel his own heart racing in his chest as he stares back at him, as Brett’s eyes flick between his own.

“You—what?”

James is suddenly, overwhelmingly terrified.

“That day I was late,” he continues, and his voice is thin. “In the subway. I was supposed to take someone’s soul, and I didn’t. I messed up, and he’s still alive, and someone else died instead and—and I made a graveling. That’s why they’ve been attacking everyone.”

It feels odd, to have those words out in the open. He’s held them in for so long that it’s almost like a relief, a weight lifted off his shoulders to know that finally, _finally,_ someone else knows the situation for what it is. He’s still absolutely out of his mind scared at whatever Brett’s reaction is going to be, and his shoulders start to tense as he watches Brett process the words, watches the bob of his throat as he swallows.

“...he’s still alive,” Brett finally says, and the words are deliberate.

James nods.

Brett’s eyes slide shut, and it’s incredibly clear that he’s holding it together for the sake of the situation at hand if nothing else. James watches as he puts down the washcloth and stands, walks far away into the kitchen. His boots click against the linoleum as he paces for a moment, as he slides his hands down his face to meet in something like a prayer, fingertips pressed to his lips.

“That was a month ago,” he continues, and James feels his hair rising on the back of his neck at the tone. “Almost two.”

“I know,” James says quietly, bracing himself.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Brett asks, and his voice is shaking—with anger, James realizes. “Why didn’t you _fucking_ tell me, James?”

“I don’t know.” James can hear it in his own voice, how shrill it’s getting, how _upset_ he sounds to his own ears. “I don’t know, I was scared, I didn’t, I didn’t know what was going to happen and he seemed fine so I, I—”

“You what.” Now James remembers why he had been so afraid to tell Brett the truth in the first place. Any anger he’s ever seen from him before before pales in comparison to the quiet rage that’s started to bubble out now. This isn’t shouting and name-calling; Brett’s fucking _pissed,_ and James just has to bear down and hope he can survive it. “What exactly did you think was going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” James says again, this time in a smaller voice.

“You don’t know,” Brett repeats, almost mockingly, takes off his hat to run a hand through his hair. “That’s just… that’s just great.” That last bit he says softly, like he’s not really speaking to James anymore. Instead he just stares at nothing in particular, keeps one hand on the top of his head and starts to aggressively flap his hat at his side with the other. He looks like he’s deliberating, like he doesn’t even know what he wants to say.

“Do you know where he is?” Brett finally says tightly, and isn’t that the question of the century. James swallows.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Brett says, and he won’t look at James, and somehow that hurts more than he expected it to. “We’re going to go now, and you’re going to take his soul, and that’s going to be the end of it.”

It’s abrupt, and it’s terrifying how quickly Brett has made that decision. James stands up immediately, stomach dropping out from under him as he starts talking too fast with his hands out, placating and anxious as he tries to think of something to say.

“We can’t,” he says too quickly, and finally Brett turns his attention back to him. The anger there is horrifying, but what’s worse is how… how almost blank he looks in it. His eyes are burning and his mouth is set, but there’s something there that James can’t place. Brett just stares at him for a moment, and his eyebrows go up.

“We can’t,” he repeats slowly.

James almost flinches, but holds himself together while his arm screams in pain.

“We, we can’t, it’s… it’s raining,” he says lamely. He knows it’s a shitty excuse, and he knows it’s not going to stop Brett at all, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t know what else he can _say._ He hasn’t thought this far ahead, hasn’t really considered what he was going to do once he actually told Brett that he missed the appointment. Fuck, Brett doesn’t even know the half of it and he’s already this mad.

Sure enough, Brett lets out a little huff of laughter like a scoff, shakes his head in the opposite direction before he looks at James again. There’s a humorless grin on his face as he strides forward, as he whips his hat somewhere against the wall. When he stalks up to stand in front of James, James realizes that never, dead or alive, has he felt this small.

“Do you remember what I told you yesterday?” he says in a low voice, quiet and scary. “When you asked me what happens when you miss an appointment?”

“...yes,” James says quietly, trying not to shrink back, trying to stand his ground. Brett’s close enough to his face that James could count the splash of freckles on his nose if he wanted.

“What happens, James?”

“...it goes bad.” James swallows, voice trembling. “Like… like milk.”

“And what do you imagine two-month-old rotten milk would be like?”

It paints a vivid picture, makes James sick when he thinks about it. He’s opened sour milk before, and it’s turned his stomach before at the smell of it. But it’s never been two months old before; he could barely stand a week past its expiration date. As he stares into Brett’s face, he finally takes that step back, finally sets his shoulders and tries very, very hard to keep his face even and calm.

“Fuckin’ nasty,” he says, or tries to. It comes out weaker than he had intended, and the smile on Brett’s face is entirely lacking of any of the warmth or mirth that James has come to know.

“Fuckin’ nasty,” he agrees quietly, and licks his lips once as he looks away, as he starts bouncing one leg where he stands. He looks like he’s thinking very hard about what he wants to say next.

James can feel the tension in his own shoulders, spine stock straight as he watches every motion, waits for it. He’s never considered Brett to be a particularly _violent_ man, maybe just a little prone to overly enthusiastic outbursts when he gets a bit too peeved. So he doesn’t think Brett would _hit_ him. But Brett’s also built like a brick shithouse, and James doesn’t particularly want his face to be acquainted with Brett’s fist.

“Is there something else you want to tell me?” Brett says to the wall, rather than to James. It’s a now or never question, and James sucks in a sharp breath, just tries to figure out what the fuck he’s going to do. “Or is that the extent of it?”

“It’s not,” James says before he can think it through, and Brett’s eyes close as he breathes in deep. It looks like he’s bracing himself for it. “No, I—there’s, there’s more. Fuck, I’m sorry, Brett, I—”

“I don’t,” Brett starts, holds a hand up to quiet James before he can continue, “really want apologies right now, James. I just want an explanation. Which you’re going to give me, and then we’re going to go finish your job.”

“I _can’t_ ,” James says, anxiety rising quick, heart jumping in his chest like a beating drum. “I can’t, I—I fucked up, man, I’m _sorry._ ”

“You keep saying sorry, but somehow I get the feeling that you don’t really want to tell me why.” When he looks towards James again, he can finally place the expression there. Betrayal. “You can’t tell me why you ignored what you were _supposed to do_ , or you can’t go take his soul?”

It’s both. James knows it’s both. But having to voice that, having to tell Brett the actual extent of it all, comes at a price that James doesn’t want to fathom. If he has to go out there, if he has to hunt Aleks down after they just survived a _fire,_ one that’s probably still smouldering in the rain outside, James isn’t sure he could continue on after that. Brett seems intent on it, without any of the details, but James has a gut feeling that _details_ aren’t going to matter very much anymore.

“I didn’t ignore it,” is what he says instead, frantic. “I didn’t, it was an _accident,_ I got the name wrong and I… I stopped him from dying instead. It wasn’t on purpose!”

That gets another loud sigh and an angry run of Brett’s fingers through his own hair again, but this time it comes with a laugh.

“No wonder the gravelings are so pissed off,” he says, almost giggling, but there’s not a single ounce of humor in it. “Jesus Christ. You didn’t think to _tell anyone?_ ”

“I didn’t know what would happen! I didn’t know what you would do!”

“ _Then you_ _ask!_ ”

It’s damn near an explosion as Brett rounds on him, furious, but for the first time James feels real rage replacing the anxiety in his chest. He stands his ground then, face growing hot as he yells right back.

“I _did!_ I did fucking ask you!” he snarls. “And you know what you did? You gave me a _bullshit_ answer!”

That actually catches Brett off guard, enough that James can see him blinking a few times as he runs that night through in his head. It’s quickly replaced by more anger again, and a second later Brett’s back to matching his tone, and his pitch. They’re up in each other’s space, now, and James feels his anger mixing with frustration and fright as Brett leans in close.

“You also _lied_ to me,” Brett says through his teeth. “You fucking told me you were _just wondering._ ”

“I didn’t know what to _do_ ,” James snaps, and his voice has raised an octave because he’s so mad, he’s so mad he can’t even see straight. He’s mad at himself, he’s mad at this shit job he’s been given, he’s mad at Brett for not understanding, he’s _mad._ “I didn’t know what to do, okay? No one told me _anything,_ everyone just said ‘don’t break the rules, James!’ and went on their happy fuckin’ merry way!”

“That’s what rules are _for,_ you shouldn’t need a fucking reason!” Brett sounds incredulous under his anger. “What did you _think_ was going to _happen?_ Do you just think that your actions don’t have fucking consequences? That rules are just there because they look pretty and shiny and we get to tell people _no_?”

“I didn’t want this!” James can hear his voice cracking and he doesn’t care. “I didn’t fucking want this, stop acting like I signed up for it!”

“None of us signed up for it,” and now Brett just looks furious, like he can’t even begin to understand James’s words, and that pisses James off even more. “No one fucking asks for this! You aren’t _special_ just because it happened recently, James, you’re just the _new guy_.”

And that _stings._ He doesn’t know if Brett intended for it to, if he was really aiming as low as it hit, but now James is just mad and upset and _hurt._ That’s not fair to put so much on one person, and it’s not fair to act like this isn’t _hard._

“Just because it’s fucking easy for you now doesn’t mean it’s easy for me!” he snaps, and he can hear himself getting choked up. “I still have my mom and my friends and my fucking _dog_ , they’re still out there, that’s not _fair—_ ”

“You think this is _easy_ for me? Or _fair_?”

And oh. Oh, James has fucked up. He can tell. Brett’s voice has gone deadly soft, and there’s an anger in his eyes that James has never seen before. He takes a real step back now, tensing up as Brett mirrors the action by taking a step forward.

Now, at last, James can see the century-old man in Brett’s dark eyes, the decades and decades that have been etched there by time, the things he’s seen that James has only ever read about in history books. He feels small, weak, all the anger draining out of him so quickly that it’s been replaced by a cold numbness again.

“You don’t get to lecture me about what’s _fair._ ” Brett’s a solid wall of muscle as he walks towards James, and James has half a mind to run away, as far as he can. Instead he just keeps backing up, unable to escape. “You want to know what’s not _fair?_ Telling kids just like you that their lives are over and they have to come do this piece of shit job for probably the next hundred years because they’re _dead. Not fair_ is _doing_ this piece of shit job for so long that you don’t _have_ a mother, or friends, or a _fucking dog_ left, because they’re _all dead_.”

James’s back hits the window, and he tries to take a breath.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and he’s _scared._ He’s scared of Brett, and his very real anger, and he’s scared of what he’s done because Brett still doesn’t even know the half of it.

“Oh, I’m not done,” Brett says, and again that empty, angry laugh. “What about, what about having to take over as the boss because the last one was so _fucked up_ about moving on after all the time he spent here that he let the teenage kid that was supposed to take his spot _rot_ for _months_ before anyone found out? Have you ever had to deal with that, James?”

“No,” James says, flattened against the window, shoulders curled in.

“How about letting that poor kid stay with you for _years_ because you didn’t know how else to help? And now you’re suddenly the boss and you have no idea how to do it?” Brett’s laugh is hollow. “What about seeing your own fucking face in the mirror and knowing that everyone you ever gave a fuck about when you were alive are all dead? What about having to deal with this shit, this, right now? You think any of this is _easy_ for me?”

“No,” James says again, small and terrified.

“Good. It’s _not_.” He raises a hand and James flinches automatically, but Brett’s just running it down his own face, and he must notice James’s reaction because he finally takes a step back. The air is charged around them, another fight still trying to surface but neither of them seem to want to continue on with it.

The pain returns to James’s arm, then, and he stares down at it.

“We’re going now,” Brett says to the wall, with finality. “And we’re going to take care of your appointment, and then we’re… I don’t know.”

“I can’t,” James says again, cradling his arm against his chest, head bowed. “Fuck. I _can’t,_ Brett.”

He’s expecting more anger, more frustration, for Brett to get back up in his face and demand to know why, but Brett’s mouth just thins as he glances over at him. He looks James up and down with just his eyes, and he looks fucking exhausted, and when he speaks there’s a new layer to his voice. It’s tired, and it’s expectant.

“Are you going to tell me why?”

James stares at him, a hundred different thoughts swirling around in his mind. He can’t just walk up to Aleks and take his soul, let him die, he wants to help him so badly but he _can’t._ Aleks deserves an explanation, he deserves to know why James has been running, why James hurt him the way he did, and it occurs to James that he probably broke Aleks’s heart.

It seems self-absorbed to come to such a conclusion. They never actually exchanged any sort of heartfelt love confessions, but James isn’t stupid, and the look in Aleks’s eyes, the plea for him to stay… that had been more than enough. Barely two months is so short a time to fall in love with someone, and he knows that, but when he thinks about the happiness that he felt just being around Aleks he knows that he could never just take his soul now and be done with it.

There _has_ to be a way to fix it, and maybe Brett knows it.

Brett’s watching him as he hesitates, as he tries to work up the courage to say it out loud. It’s hard, it’s one of the hardest things that James has ever done, and in the wake of Brett’s anger it’s certainly not something that’s going to come with any kind of fearlessness. He holds his arm closer against his chest, and thinks of the plants on the wall, and thinks of Aleks sleeping next to him, pale in the moonlight.

When he smiles, it’s broken.

“I fell in love with him,” he admits at last. “Like a fucking idiot.”

What follows is… empty, simple. Brett merely blinks at him a few times, expressionless all the way to his eyes. For a long moment James is sure he’s going to start in again with that low voice that scared him far more than any shout ever could. He doesn’t look angry, or… or _anything._ He just stares at James for a long moment, and James waits for the explosion with anxiety thick in his chest.

Brett doesn’t shout at him. Instead he just turns on his heel without a single word. He stoops down to pick his hat up off the floor, sets it firmly on his head, and then he’s striding to the door and wrenching it open. James watches him go, stunned and frozen in place, and when it slams the sound is what spurs him into action.

“Fuck,” he says, and then louder, into the quiet of his apartment, “fuck! _Fuck!_ ”

He’s not sure who’s watching out for him that he has the mind to remember socks and shoes, that he can remember to throw a hoodie on over his head to hide his arm. The hallway’s already empty when he throws his door open, stares down either end before he makes a break for the stairs.

“Brett!” His voice echoes down the stairwell, and no one answers. There’s a panic setting in now, and James makes a soft, high pitched noise of frustration as he starts to throw himself down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Was Brett going to go straight to Geoff, or worse, did he have a direct line to Upper Management? Were they going to somehow be able to transfer Aleks to someone else? Or were they going to force James to take his soul and then launch James into the void without a second thought?

There are a million thoughts running through his head as he reaches the bottom floor, practically sprints out into the lobby. It’s still raining hard outside, but he can just barely catch sight of Brett’s camo jacket just outside the front doors. He’s walking away, and James makes a break for it. The rain’s loud when he throws the doors open, and it immediately starts to soak him through as he chases after Brett, frantic.

“Brett!”

He catches up with him, people running past them with newspapers held over their heads as they try to get out of the rain. James is already starting to shiver in the cold of it, but Brett’s stopped walking at least and now they’re just standing there, getting soaked through.

“Brett,” he says again, desperate. “I’m— I’m _sorry._ ”

It’s quiet, for a moment. James doesn’t know what to do, what he can say. There are sirens in the distance, always sirens, always a sound to remind him of that first day when everything changed. It’s a sound of pain and misery and it’s a sound of _death,_ and James wonders if he’s ruined this relationship forever. When Brett turns to look at him then, James can _feel_ it, can feel how whatever the two of them might have been building could very well be lost.

“Why,” Brett says then, and it’s hard to hear him over the rain, “do you have to make everything so _fucking difficult,_ James?”

That hurts, too. A lot of the things that Brett’s said to him have hurt, but there’s something about being underhandedly told that he’s a burden, that he’s _difficult,_ that he’s _depressing,_ that weighs down on him in a way that settles uncomfortably in his chest. The rain’s running down the side of his face, and his arm stings where the thick fabric of his hoodie clings to the wound underneath. When he looks down at his hand, there’s pink blood dripping to the tips of his fingers.

“I don’t mean to,” he says, and even if he tries to make it sound like a joke, it doesn’t. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t—I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Brett’s shoulders jump once, like he’s laughing, flash of white teeth before he presses both hands to his face and then wipes the rainwater away. They’re both soaked, and thunder rumbles above them. James thinks of lightning, sharp and mean, thinks of electricity, how it _ruined_ his fucking _life,_ and he wants to either laugh or cry. How fucking quickly things can change. He’s experienced it firsthand.

“You know,” Brett says, looking at something in the distance, and James’s stomach clenches. “You know what you have to do, James. You already know how this has to end.”

“I don’t,” James replies immediately, growing frantic, “I don’t know, there’s, there’s gotta be a way to fix this, Brett. There has to be!”

“There’s only one way to fix this.” There’s pity in Brett’s voice, or maybe sorrow. “He has to die.”

To hear the words spoken out loud shatters every single wall that James had tried to put up, every lie he told himself to make this seem like it was going to be okay. All the times he told himself that it could _work,_ every time that he ignored the signs, every time he dodged around the question and hid it from everyone else, every time he kissed Aleks and felt like the world had finally found its balance under his feet—it all just cracks and then falls to pieces, a spiderweb running up a broken windowpane before it falls out of its frame.

And James… can’t accept that.

“No,” he says, and shakes his head. “No. That’s not… that’s not the only way. There _has_ to be another way.”

“There isn’t.” Brett takes off his hat again, runs his fingers through his sopping wet hair, eyes searching the sky for something that James can’t place. James just watches him, more diluted blood dripping from the tips of his fingers to the ground below. No one else seems to notice.

“There _is,_ ” he argues, and his voice cracks. “They fixed Trevor!”

He must’ve hit another button because Brett takes a too-sharp breath, seems to collect himself before he says, “if you think what Upper Management did for Trevor was _fixing_ him, then you’re just a fucking idiot, James.”

“He went through the same thing!” James protests, but he already knows he’s losing his battle.

“And he couldn’t just peacefully pass on like your,” and Brett pauses, laughs once, “your guy can. Your guy can just move on, happily ever after, upwards and onwards, with no side effects. Trevor has to fucking stay and do this miserable shitty job for however long they want him. There’s no _fixing_ this, James. There’s nothing you can do.”

They’re the words that James didn’t want to hear, it’s exactly what he had hoped he wouldn’t have to face. That his mistake, his stupid shitty mistake that snowballed into a bunch of mistakes, are all something that he can’t fix by himself. That this isn’t something that can just go away, that he can just wave a magic wand and Aleks will get to stay alive, and they get to be together. Maybe that’s why Brett is looking at him with such pity in his eyes, like he’s _sorry_ for James, poor James who was stupid enough to fall in love with a living person.

That’s something that James can’t take, and he steps back again, shakes his head.

“I can’t do this,” he says over the rain, and his eyes are burning as the weight of it all tries to crush him into the pavement. “This is too hard.”

“Do you know how sick and tired I am of telling everyone that they don’t have a choice?” Brett says, and there’s rainwater in his eyelashes. “You think I want to tell you that you don’t have a choice? That I wanted to tell Trevor he didn’t have a choice, you think I want to tell any of you that get dealt a _shitty_ afterlife that you don’t have a choice?”

James stares at him, misery making his fingertips numb.

“I don’t want to,” he finally admits, finally replaces the _can’t_ for how he really feels. It’s not that he can’t, although that’s definitely part of it. His unwillingness to do so, to let go of Aleks, to let go of what they’ve managed to build in such a short amount of time— he doesn’t want to, more than anything, because it’s _unfair._ It’s not fair on James, and it’s especially not fair on Aleks, who still has no idea. James is just another guy to him, just another shithead who dragged him along and then left. If only things were that easy.

“I know. But you have to.” Brett’s tone is almost dull, and he puts his hat back on. Thunder rumbles above them, angry and distant, and a crack of lightning follows. “If you’re so in love with this guy, James, then at least prove it and let him go.”

That things could come to a head so quickly seems almost unfathomable, in that moment. James stares at Brett and tries to breathe, tries to imagine exactly what it is he can do in this situation that could possibly change the outcome. He wants to truly believe that there’s a fix for this, that Aleks doesn’t have to die in order to find peace, that somehow Upper Management can do something and he can grow old, he can have his life. Even if James never gets to see him again, at least he’d _be alive._ He can have something that James is never going to get again.

But he knows that Brett’s telling him the truth. He knows that there’s no way around this, even as much as he wants to deny it. He wants to pretend that everything will be okay, that it won’t desperately, desperately hurt him, but that’s living in a dreamworld that James can’t keep indulging anymore. He has to account for his actions, and it must show on his face as he makes that decision because Brett slips his hands into his jacket pockets and sighs.

“We need to go,” he says quietly, and James swallows.

“Yeah.” His voice cracks, just on that single syllable, and above them thunder cracks the sky in half.

They walk. James is just a little bit in front, leading Brett as they make their way across town. Neither of them say anything, and James doesn’t focus on where he’s going beyond the mechanical steps he takes. He knows the way to Aleks’s apartment by now.

They wait at a stoplight, and that’s when James takes a look at his arm again. The rain’s agitated it a bit, and there are black fibers stuck to some of the gnarlier parts of his arm from the sleeve. But already it’s healed more, the outer edges completely clean, and it’s starting to look less like layers of his skin are missing and simply more like he’s just got a bad burn from an oven. It’s the middle that’s the worst at this point, where the burn was deepest. It’s barely been an hour or two, and he’d be more amazed at the speed of it if he could muster it up.

He doesn’t know if he can do this. He’s ruined his friendship with Brett, he’s sure, and he can’t look at Trevor or Joe the same way again. He’ll be amazed if either of them ever forgive him, and he’s not sure he would forgive himself for everything he’s put them both through.

Aleks… James doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what Aleks is going to think, or do. It would be easier to just take his soul and be done with it but James knows, from the very depths of him, that he wouldn’t be able to.

When they reach Aleks’s building the rain has stopped, and James stares at the front doors. It’s daunting, it terrifies the shit out of James as he looks up at it. The bricks are dark from the rain, and there are still clouds rolling through above it. He wonders if Aleks is even there, or if he went to Eddie’s, or if he’s at the hospital if things were bad. James doesn’t know, because he _left,_ and at this point it’s all a matter of luck.

Brett sits down on the front steps, presses his mouth against his thumbs where his hands have curled into loose fists from where he’s leaning on them, elbows on his thighs. James looks down at him with what feels like a hole in his chest, breathing a little too hard, and Brett explains himself before James can answer.

“This is a conversation you need to have without me,” he says, and reaches out to give James’s calf a half-hearted pat. “Go.”

James doesn’t know if he can do this alone, but he can’t ask Brett to go with him. Not after everything he’s done. He swallows hard and pulls the doors open, steps inside and immediately starts to shiver as the cold air conditioning hits him. There are a couple of people in the lobby, but they pay him no mind as he starts to make his way towards the stairs. The elevator’s still broken, he notices with a bit of empty laughter.

Seven flights have never felt so difficult. He pulls himself up by the bannister, leaves a trail of wet footprints behind himself as he does so, and with every flight his heart sinks even more. He doesn’t even know if Aleks will open the door for him, or if he will and then immediately slam it shut. He doesn’t even know if Aleks is _there,_ doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he is. James doesn’t fucking know, and he’s never felt more lost.

The lights flicker just once as he steps into Aleks’s hallway, and it’s empty of any people. He knows he must look like something else, soaked through and one arm still half-burned underneath his sleeve. There’s probably still soot in his hair if it hasn’t been washed away by the rain.

Standing in front of Aleks’s door is more terrifying than anything else he’s ever done. His fist hovers against it, shaking, all of him wanting to turn and run, tail between his legs, he wants to run back downstairs and past Brett and wants to keep going until he can’t go any longer, until Upper Management finds him and drags him back kicking and screaming. He wants to be a coward.

There’s a tapping noise from a few feet away, and when James turns he catches sight of a crow standing outside the window at the end of the hall. It cocks its head curiously at him, caws once and rustles its feathers. Its dark beady eyes stare at him for a long moment, and James stares right back at it.

He makes up his mind then, and knocks sharply on the door three times.

Immediately he can hear barking and the excited skittering of nails on linoleum. It almost makes him smile, but then Aleks’s voice drifts through the door too, aggravated Russian in Mishka’s direction before the door swings open.

James’s heart stops.

“...what do you want,” Aleks says coldly, standing there while Mishka tries to weave past his legs. His hair’s wet, and he’s clean, so he must’ve showered when he got home. James by contrast still looks a fucking mess, and he grapples for words as Aleks glares at him. When James can’t come up with something to say immediately, Aleks starts to close the door. “Go away, James.”

“No!” James says sharply, finding his voice. He catches the door with his bad arm and winces at the flash of pain that runs all the way up to his shoulder. Aleks must catch that, because he freezes and looks at it before his eyes flick back to James. James stares at him pleadingly, keeping the door open with his forearm. “Please, just—don’t close the door, Aleks. Please.”

“Why?” Aleks asks, and his voice is bitter. “I told you, James, we’re fucking done. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

“I know,” James says, and hates himself for what he did, hates himself for having left without an explanation, when Aleks was vulnerable and needed him most. “God, I know, Aleks, I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t fucking care.” Aleks opens the door wider to move James’s arm off, and he can see him giving Mishka a gentle nudge with his foot to push her back as he starts to close it again. “Goodbye, James.”

James can’t bear the thought of Aleks closing the door. He can’t bear the thought of knowing what he has to do, what he can’t escape from, and his voice trembles when he speaks again. It’s riding on a laugh, one that’s devoid of anything but this shitty pain that he can’t get rid of, and the sound of it gets Aleks to pause for a second.

“Can we talk, please? I just want to, to explain, and then…” He hesitates, takes a breath and rolls his eyes upwards to keep himself in check. “And then… and then you’ll never have to see me again.”

It’s probably the first bit of truth he’s ever told Aleks, really, and he can see Aleks’s eyes getting a little too bright as he looks away, scoffs quietly before he leaves the door open, walks back into his apartment. It’s an invitation, albeit an angry one, and James crosses the threshold hesitantly, shuts the door behind himself.

“Fine,” Aleks says to the ground, and James catches how he wipes at his eyes once before he turns around, levels James with a glare. “Fine. Fucking talk, then.”

And James, as he stands there, wonders where to even begin. There are a lot of explanations he could give, standing there dripping rainwater onto the tiles as Mishka dances around his feet. There are a lot of ways this could go, and James has no manual for how to approach it. He just stares at Aleks’s angry face, at the dark bags under his eyes, at his dark hair where it’s sticking up from his shower.

Love’s never hurt so badly in his entire life, and James almost smiles.

“You want the truth?” he asks, and Aleks rolls his eyes.

“Of course I want the fucking truth,” he snaps, arms crossing, eyes burning with anger, _justified_ anger. He stands there, glaring at James with so much hatred, none of the warmth and happiness from their nights spent together, and James knows he deserves it.

James holds his bad arm against his stomach, looks around this apartment that he’s spent so little time in, but such important time nonetheless. Aleks watches his every move, clearly growing more impatient, and James finally speaks.

“You’re not going to believe it,” he says softly, staring at his own handwriting on the whiteboard stuck to the fridge, half-smeared away by an angry hand. Somehow, that cuts him deeper than anything else.

Aleks makes an irritated noise.

“Yeah? Try me.”

James finally looks at him again, and the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile as he finally, finally, _finally_ tells Aleks the truth. It hurts, and he knows he’s going to sound like a fucking lunatic, but his arm flares sharply with pain again, and he swallows and stands his ground. Aleks stares at him, expectant, and James takes a deep breath before he speaks.

“I’m a grim reaper,” he says quietly, and the words hold no humor, no jokes, no sarcasm. “And I’m here to take your soul, Aleks.”


	12. we push away what we can never understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks, everyone!!! we're almost there!!! ♥
> 
> come on over to [tumblr](myriadus.tumblr.com) if you want to say hi!

Aleks sniffles once, nods his head as he looks up at the ceiling. His eyes look.

“Oh, okay,” he says quietly, almost as if to himself. “Okay, so it’s… either it’s crackhead or, or fucking nuthouse. Okay. Cool. Which one is it?”

James wants to laugh.

“Do you have any idea how fuckin’ easy this would be if _those_ were my only two options? Sign me up for the nuthouse, man. I’ll take it.” He lifts his arms, presses his palms to the back of his head as he tries to think of what he can say. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot. Near their feet, Mishka’s started to pace between the two of them, and her nails clack loudly on the kitchen floor. “You asked for the truth. I gave it to you, okay? I gave it to you.”

The glare he gets in return for that one is… it’s visceral hatred again, but maybe there’s almost like a little bit of pity in there as well. He’s looking at James like he doesn’t quite know what to do with him yet. He clearly thinks that James is in need of some serious help, and to be honest James wishes that was the extent of his problems. But he keeps his gaze, stares back at Aleks until he speaks again.

“A grim reaper,” Aleks says slowly, like he’s humoring him, like he’s speaking to a crazy person and just wants to accommodate James’s wild fantasies out of misplaced kindness, and honestly that just gets James to bristle a little bit. He’s not fucking _crazy._ “So, what, like. Scythe and robe?”

James looks down at himself, takes in what he looks like. Jeans and a black hoodie, hair a sopping bun hanging off the back of his head. Still, he gets points for the black if nothing else. Fuck. James went too hard with this one, and now he has to dial it back. He knew this conversation wasn’t exactly going to be an easy one to have, but with the way Aleks is glaring at him again he knows that it’s not going to get any quieter, or calmer. He sighs, picks a bit at the big pocket near his stomach.

“Just what I’ve got on,” he says, a little doleful. “It’s not… very impressive.”

“Okay,” Aleks says again, sounds even more like he wants James out of his apartment. James knows he’s not making any sense, he _knows_ that he sounds like he’s absolutely insane and he wouldn’t be surprised if Aleks was actually fearing for his life a little bit. It’s funny, in a way, because he _should_ be fearing for his life, just... not how he thinks he should. James sighs, scratches at his beard as he tries to think, paces a little bit in place while Mishka barks once and follows his motions.

“I know I sound crazy,” he starts again, but Aleks cuts him off with a laugh.

“Dude, you _really_ fucking do.” Aleks runs both hands through his hair, looks around with a smirk devoid of any mirth on his face. “Okay. Alright. I’ll humor you. Are you like… the angel of death, is that it? That’s what you’re trying to tell me?”

And that’s fucking _funny,_ is what that is. James snorts out his laughter.

“Nah, man. I’m not an _angel._ I’ve never even met an actual angel yet, but you know,” he tries to smile, “I’ve been told that they’re assholes.”

What follows that is a short pause, Aleks staring at him with his lips parted, still with watery eyes as he looks James up and down and— okay, James is well aware that he could’ve maybe eased Aleks into it, but James isn’t known for his subtlety. There’s still a gnawing pain in his stomach, loneliness and hurt pride that’s trying to claw his way out as he stares at Aleks trying to size him up.

_Why do you have to make everything so fucking difficult, James?_

He wishes he had the answer to that question for himself, too.

“Well,” Aleks says, again turning away like he’s not sure what to do. “You’re either telling the truth or you’re... like, really committed to your own insanity, so that’s a fucking relief, I guess. Gotta be one or the other.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” James says sarcastically, but when he tries to take a step forward Aleks moves backwards. He doesn’t look scared, but he definitely looks wary, and James can see him reaching into his pocket for his phone.

“Don’t,” Aleks says, holding out his other hand. James stops obediently, because he’s aware of how this whole situation looks. He’s soaked to the bone and, to Aleks’s eyes, spouting delusions about grim reapers and angels. James wouldn’t believe himself if he were in Aleks’s position, and he knows that he has to backtrack and figure out a new angle. Aleks isn’t going to believe him if he just _tells_ him. He needs proof.

“Okay, how about this. You remember the subway?” he asks, and Aleks’s eyes flick somewhere into the middle distance before he glances back at James. James can see how his mouth thins, can see how he runs that day through his mind again before he scoffs and turns away. It’s not a very good example, but it’s what he’s got to work with. “I pulled you back, remember? You were gonna fall in front of the train but I pulled you back.”

“That’s so fucked up,” Aleks says, meeting his quiet tone, and he sounds angry, really and truly angry as his voice starts to rise again. “James, what the fuck, man? Seriously, you’re off your meds or something, right? You’re having some kind of, some kind of—” and he gestures at James awkwardly, a sweep of his hands up and down, “like, a schizo episode or something, right? That’s what this is. You’re just fuckin’ crazy.”

James is silent. Yeah, he definitely knows what this conversation looks like, and he doesn’t know how to convince Aleks otherwise. And to be fair, it’s not like that heroic rescue had been a conscious decision on James’s part, at least not entirely. But it’s the best he’s really got to work with right now, and he has to use it. Aleks is still staring at him like he might be a little afraid of him, and that… James doesn’t like that. He wants Aleks to _understand._

“Look at me,” James says, gestures at himself, and his arm stings. “Do I look like I’m off my meds or whatever? Because I’m totally lucid, man. I’m telling you, I _wish_ this was some kind of schizo episode because my fucking life would be so much easier if that’s all this was.”

Aleks scoffs at him again.

“You’re trying to tell me that you’re the fucking grim reaper,” Aleks says, outlining it slowly, and he sounds incredulous, almost exhausted. James can’t even blame him. “And then you’re, like, trying to convince me that you’re totally in your right mind, that you’re not _batshit insane_ because that would be _easier._ Than, you know, being _the grim reaper._ Do I have it right so far?”

James swallows.

“That’s pretty much it, yeah.” He pauses, runs a hand across the nape of his neck. “But, uh, I’m not _the_ grim reaper. Just _a_ grim reaper.”

“Do you have, like, someone you can call? To come pick you up?” Aleks asks then, finally taking his phone out of his pocket, and he sounds unsure, sounds almost freaked out. This isn’t what James had wanted at all, and he doesn’t really know what to do about it. Mishka, for her part, finally makes up her mind and lays down on James’s feet, starts panting up at him.

“I, well, my boss is downstairs,” James says lamely, looking down at her before he glances back up again. He watches as Aleks takes that in, really stares at him before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “But he made me come here, so.”

“James,” Aleks says, and he sounds like he’s trying to be as patient as possible. “Dude, do I gotta call the cops? Or do you have a, a fucking therapist that can come up here and help you? You gotta go back to the fuckin’ psych ward or, or what?”

“I’m not crazy,” James says through his teeth, and he hates that they have to have this conversation. He hates that Aleks won’t believe him, but for as easy as it would be to just get it over with, he _can’t._ Aleks is owed a better explanation, a better death than that. If James has to take his soul, he wants Aleks to know _why._ “Aleks, I’m trying to fucking explain myself, like you wanted. I’m just—you’ve gotta trust me, just. Just listen.”

At his feet, as if she’s agreeing with him, Mishka barks once. Her tail thumps against his shin, and James looks down at her, a bit stunned.

Aleks’s eyes flick down at her, and his mouth thins.

“Mishka, c’mere.”

She doesn’t move, just looks up at James with her tongue lolling out, big brown eyes staring up at him. He looks down at her, remembers how both she and Ein had been able to tell who he really is, past the fake appearance, past his meager attempt at being a normal guy.

“Mishka, _come here,_ ” Aleks says again, and his voice is tense as he enunciates each syllable. Again, she just ignores him, stares up at James and then looks over at Aleks, panting happily. She barks again, a short _yip_ that sounds too loud in the apartment. James is a bit afraid to move, entirely unsure.

It’s entirely a surprise when Aleks _snaps,_ a sudden roar of anger that nearly has James jumping out of his skin _._

“ _Mishka, **come here**!_ ”

She yelps, frightened, skitters off James’s feet and immediately runs somewhere into the kitchen. James flinches hard, already shouting back before Mishka’s even made it off his feet.

“Dude, what the fuck!”

Aleks is red in the face, eyes wide as he breathes too hard, takes in the fact that he just shouted at his dog. James has his arms up, brought in front of him like a startled shield as Aleks stares at where Mishka is hiding in the kitchen. It’s clear that the anger’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by what looks like dread and shame as Aleks takes a step back, runs shaking hands through his still-damp hair.

“You, you need to go,” he says shakily. “You’re stressing me out, James. Just go.”

“I _can’t,_ ” James says desperately, “not until you _listen._ ”

“I don’t have to listen to _anything!_ ” Aleks shouts again, throwing his hands down again and rounding on him. There’s still color in his cheeks, still a brightness to his eyes that won’t go away. James takes a step back out of shock more than anything else, and he can hear Mishka whimpering in the kitchen. “I don’t have to fucking listen to a _thing_ you say, James! Shut the fuck up!”

“Isn’t this weird to you?” James yells back, voice pitching high. “Don’t you fuckin’ wonder why you’re freaking out like this, all the time?”

“How would you know,” and God, the way he looks at James is _ugly._ It brings thick shame up in James’s throat, because he knows from the depths of him that this isn’t how Aleks _is_. It’s cruel, and it’s mean. “You don’t know a fucking thing, since you’re barely ever around all of a sudden, you keep fucking leaving! When I’m fucking, fucking _begging_ you not to, asshole! You don’t know anything, James!”

“Yes, I do,” James tries, ashamed, but Aleks scoffs.

“Oh, right, grim reaper,” he says mockingly. “Right. Come to take my soul. Of course. If that was the case then why didn’t you just let me die in that fire? Make your job easy instead of doing all this shit?”

The fire. James blinks at him a couple of times, hand coming up to grip too hard at his bad arm. It hurts, but not as badly as it had before. He’s had proof the entire time, and as Aleks glares at him he takes a step forward, shoves the sleeve of his hoodie up.

“Fine. You want proof? You wanna talk about the fire?” he says, a little desperately. “ _Look,_ Aleks. Just look!”

For a moment it doesn’t seem like Aleks is going to listen. It looks like he’s going to start shouting again, or he’s going to call the cops, or he’s going to shove at James and refuse to hear anything else, that he’s going to force him to leave and then James doesn’t know what he’s going to do. Brett won’t let him leave, he knows that. James can’t bring himself to leave, because already he can see how fucked up Aleks is, and it’s _his fault._

But Aleks stares at him, and there’s such an angry, unhappy set to his mouth. But he stares, and after a second or two James watches as his eyes flick down. And then he freezes, blinks way too many times. James just stands there, holding out his arm; it’s almost healed now, save for the one spot in the middle where the burn had been the worst. To James’s eyes, his tattoos are still there, but all Aleks will see is clear skin, arm hair, maybe a few birthmarks, a small burn that looks like it’s weeks and weeks into healing, instead of something James sustained only a couple of hours beforehand.

“I’m not lying, and I’m not crazy,” James says, and he’s shocked at how his voice shakes. “How could my arm be okay already, Aleks?”

Aleks is silent.

“ _How?_ ” James repeats, takes a step towards him again. Aleks moves away from him in the same motion, still staring at James’s arm with eyes that are starting to grow wide. He sweeps the length of James’s arm with his eyes, and James can see his breath picking up as he runs through options in his head.

“...we were all freaking out,” Aleks says finally, but his voice is unsure. “And, and we inhaled all that, all that smoke. I was probably seeing things. It wasn’t as bad as I thought.”

“You really believe that?” James demands, and his voice almost cracks. “You saw it, Aleks. You saw my arm, you wanted me to go to the hospital! It’s been like _two hours!_ ”

“I thought it was worse than it was,” Aleks says firmly, rubbing at his eyes with his fingers and bowing just a little. He looks like he’s trying to process, looks like he’s trying to make sense of what James is showing him. But James knows, he _knows_ that Aleks had seen the extent of the damage because he’d been the one to point it out, he’s the one who had drawn James’s attention to all his blackened, peeling skin. Now it’s just pink and angry red, but it’s nothing more than a shiny burn. It looks like all James did was press his arm against a hot oven for a split second.

“You know that’s not true,” James says, and Aleks swallows.

“Yes it is,” he says firmly, but there’s finally that real look of uncertainty. “You need to leave.”

“I’m not leaving,” James says, tries to be solid in it, but Aleks starts to shake his head, starts to move forward. He shoves at James as soon as he’s close, pushes him towards the door. When James doesn’t immediately move he pushes harder, and in a rush of frustration James twists and grabs him around the wrist.

“I’m _not leaving,_ ” he repeats, angry and scared and upset, and a split second later James feels Aleks’s soul _move_.

At first he’s not even sure what it is; he’s felt something like it so many times that it feels as natural as breathing. But then it moves _towards_ him, a shift and a pull, like its calling to him. Aleks gasps, a frightened sound. It’s a sudden sound that makes James rip his hand away as quickly as he can, swearing. Aleks stumbles back immediately, wide-eyed and shocked as James takes a step back too, stares down at his hand in shock. He’s never felt _that_ before, or at least never with Aleks.

It had felt like his soul was reaching out to him, to his hand, curling towards him as if it knew that he’d made up his mind.

Fuck. It _knows._

“What was that?” Aleks croaks, and he’s holding his wrist close to his chest. “James. What the fuck was that—”

“I’m sorry,” James says immediately, takes another step back. “Oh, fuck, Aleks. I’m sorry.”

“ _What was that?_ ” Aleks repeats again, demands it, and he looks so scared of James now. From the kitchen, Mishka starts to growl at the sound of her master’s fear. James takes another step back, stares down at his hand again with his heart pounding in his chest. He doesn’t understand what’s changed, but he does think it really might be that his conviction is the cause. He still doesn’t want to take Aleks’s soul now, but he knows he _has_ to. Somehow, that’s changed everything.

“I, I don’t know,” James says, and it’s not necessarily a lie. “What did it feel like?”

Aleks shakes his head, backs away from James with real intent now. He looks freaked out, still holding his hand up against himself like he’s not sure what to make of James, or whatever it is he felt. James can see his eyes flicking quickly between James’s face and then down to his arm, still exposed and still almost completely healed. It’s a wild experience, in some terrible way, to watch someone trying to come to terms with the impossible.

“I got a heart murmur,” Aleks finally says, and swallows. “Probably just—just that, that’s all.”

James wants to groan, but instead he rubs at his face, tries to breathe evenly.

“You _know,_ ” he says, “you _know_ that’s not what it is!”

“Well, _what the fuck_ then, James!” Aleks shouts again, but this time he sounds so _scared._ “You fuckin’, you come to my apartment after we nearly die in a fucking fire, and you, you tell me you’re the grim reaper and you’re here to _kill me,_ and you, your arm is...” He makes a soft noise, trailing off. When he speaks again, it’s almost to himself. “I _saw_ it, it was… it was fucked up. Your arm was fucked up.”

“I know,” James says, standing his ground now. He’s getting through. “You’ve just—you’ve gotta listen. Please.”

The way Aleks looks at him is frightened, unsure, and James doesn’t miss the way he looks towards the window, towards the door. He looks like he’s trying to map an exit; from the kitchen Mishka starts to creep out, and when she’s close enough she licks the tips of James’s fingers. He glances down at her, widens his fingers a little bit as she gives him a happy tail wag and then trots over to Aleks instead. James watches her, watches this sweet little dog that’s just as much a part of the reason they got close as any other.

He can’t help but laugh, empty and upset.

“We could always go to the dog park,” he offers, and he watches the first real crack in Aleks’s facade. Something crosses his face briefly, something trembling and upset.

“Shut up,” Aleks says but his hand drops down when Mishka starts nudging at him. She starts to lick his hand, too, barks once as he finally sinks down to sit. She’s on top of him immediately, licking at his face and dancing around his hands, his legs. James doesn’t step any closer, understands that it’s for the best if he keeps this distance.

Aleks swallows, petting his dog before he looks up at James again.

“If I believed you, and you’re telling the truth,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to work up the nerve, “and you’re really, really a fucking… a _grim reaper,_ and you’re here to—to take my soul…”

He trails off again, and all at once James realizes where this is heading. He understands what Aleks is asking him, the information he needs confirmed. And God, _fuck,_ the worst part is, he can’t even deny it. He can’t offer any soothing reassurances, can’t pull out a _oh no, no no, I’m not here to kill you,_ because that’s a fucking _lie._ James is done lying to Aleks. He slowly sits down too, rests his forearms on his thighs and nods his head slowly.

“Yeah.”

Aleks looks away immediately, starts shaking his head as he scoffs a little weakly.

“Well, then, I don’t believe you,” he says instantly, rubbing Mishka behind her ears. “That’s fucking stupid.”

“It’s not _stupid,_ ” James snaps, “you know the fucking shit I’ve had to go through? It’s not fucking stupid, it ruined my life and now I’ve gotta come here and, and do _this_ shit!” He gestures at Aleks, who watches his every motion with his arms wrapped tightly around his dog. “You think I want to do this?”

“Then _don’t_ ,” Aleks replies, like he’s caught James in a lie. “Then fucking _go_ back to the nuthouse or wherever you escaped from and, and leave me and my soul alone, dude.”

And isn’t that some fucking shit. Isn’t that just the best thing James has heard all day.

“I _did,_ ” James says, standing up again, and he’s aware of how thick his voice is now. “In the subway. When that guy died, he wasn’t supposed to! _You_ were!”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out as sharply and as _cruel_ as it does, but he’s pissed off and he’s upset, and he just wants Aleks to _believe him._ He doesn’t want Aleks to die never knowing how much James cares about him, never understanding that he didn’t do this because he wanted to. He wants Aleks to die knowing he’s _loved,_ he wants Aleks to have what he never could.

“Then why didn’t you do it back then?” Aleks asks, sounding incredulous, like he’s talking to a child, almost. That pisses off James even more. “If it was so fucking important?”

And maybe he’s expecting something romantic, or maybe he’s expecting something heroic. Maybe he wants James to say that it was too soon for him to die, young as he is. Maybe Aleks wants to hear about love at first sight, or how James just couldn’t kill him. James doesn’t know exactly what Aleks wants out of this conversation, and he’s not sure what else he can give to him except the truth. So he does.

“It was an accident,” he says, voice wavering. “I saved your life by accident. I didn’t know who you were until after.”

“So, what?” Aleks sounds upset now, also getting to his feet. His face is growing red, and it’s clear that James’s answer is absolutely not what he wanted to hear. “So you suck at your job and now I’ve gotta die, basically? Because hey, guess what, James, I’m having a _really hard time_ believing you!”

“Yeah!” James explodes, throwing his arms out, louder than Aleks has probably ever heard him. Aleks jumps, startled, shrinks back a little. “Yeah, you know what? I do suck at my job! I really do! I fucking hate it! And everyone’s fucking shouting at me, telling me I fucked up, and I _know_ I fucked up, I _know,_ but god, god _damnit,_ I just want to _fix it!_ ” Just as quickly as the anger came, it leaves again, leaving thick sorrow in its wake. He can barely swallow it down, and his voice breaks. “I just wanna fix it. I don’t wanna hurt you anymore, Aleks.”

Mishka’s started barking again, but all Aleks seems able to focus on is James. He has his head tilted a bit as he studies James up and down with wet eyes. He looks mad, mouth thin and the lines of his jaw tense. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft.

“Go away, James,” he says, and pulls out his phone. “I’m gonna call the cops if you don’t.”

James can’t accept that. He can’t accept that Aleks won’t believe him, can’t accept that Aleks would just push him away, and he can’t accept that he’s going to have to take his soul anyway. It would be so easy, he knows it would, all he has to do is step forward and grab Aleks and that’s it, but Aleks doesn’t _deserve_ that and fuck, fuck, James can’t do this. He can’t. It’s miserable, it’s the worst he’s ever felt, and before he can stop it tears have begun to slip down his cheeks.

He’s so sick of this. He’s sick of what’s happened to him since he died. He wants his friends back, his mother, his dog, his _life._ He wants it all back, and he can’t get it, and now the one shred of happiness that he found, this tiny little glimmer of sunshine is getting wiped out forever and he doesn’t even get to _keep_ it. There are a lot of things James probably deserves in life, but he doesn’t deserve _this._ He doesn’t deserve this fucking _pain,_ this shame, all of it.

He’s just the fucking new guy.

“James Wilson,” he says, then. Aleks pauses his motions, like he’s not sure. James sniffs, rubs at his eye in a futile effort to compose himself. “Look me up. James Wilson. I’m dead. I died back in March. There should be articles if you Google me.”

“...I’m not doing that,” Aleks says after a moment, but he doesn’t sound very convinced of himself.

James shrugs, rolls his eyes to the ceiling as he laughs a little.

“I lost my dog because I died,” he says to the water-stained tiles above him. “She’s fine. She’s with my best friend. That’s who I was talking to, that’s, that’s why I ran away, because I was fucking upset that he had her and I didn’t.” He sighs, all the breath leaving his lungs before he inhales again. “I got hit by a fucking snapped power line on my way to work.”

It’s quiet in the room, but he can hear Aleks shuffling around, and when he looks down Aleks is staring at his own phone screen. There’s a crease between his eyes.

“...you just looked this guy up, though,” Aleks says finally. “Like… Jesus, James, that’s fucked up.”

James growls in frustration, more tears gathering in his eyes because he gets it, he gets that it’s all hard to believe but he just wants Aleks to _understand._ He just wants him to understand, because he doesn’t want this conversation to go where it has to.

“What did you say earlier? I’m committed to my own insanity?” he asks, and laughs shakily. “I guess I’d have to be if I looked up some random guy with my name who’s the exact same age as me, who just _happened_ to die in the same city we live in. Right?”

“You’re lying, though!” Aleks snaps, and it looks like he wants to toss his phone. “Your name probably isn’t even James! You’re _lying!_ ”

Something in James snaps.

“ _I’m not lying!_ ” It comes out as nearly a shriek, because he can’t fucking _do this_ anymore. “I’m _not lying_ , Aleks! I don’t know how much more proof I can fucking _give_ you!”

“What am I supposed to believe, huh?” Aleks shouts right back, waving his hands around the apartment like he doesn’t know what to do. “What the fuck do you want from me, James? Would you believe this shit? Is this something you would’ve just fucking accepted if this happened to you?”

“It _did_ happen to me!” James wants to scream inarticulate words at the top of his lungs until nothing makes sense to him anymore. “It fucking _did!_ Please, just—” He buries his face in his hands, crying out again in frustration and anger before he speaks. “Please, _please,_ Aleks, just—I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to.”

“Then _don’t_!” Aleks yells back, but his voice cracks.

“I _have to!_ ” James looks up again, pleads with him with his eyes. “I have to, your fucking _soul_ is rotting, Aleks! That’s why you feel like shit, that’s why you keep getting headaches, that’s why people keep dying and getting hurt around you, it’s all _my_ fault because I didn’t do what I was supposed to!”

That gets Aleks to shut up for a minute, and James keeps talking, sees an opening as he starts to move forward.

“The other morning,” he says frantically, “when you had that migraine, when you asked me to leave, remember? Remember? When I tried to wake you up, you, you were _empty,_ you wouldn’t talk to me or look at me, you just—you weren’t _there._ ”

“I just don’t feel good,” Aleks says, but it’s wavering, and so is he.

“How long have you started feeling like shit?” James keeps on, and Aleks’s eyes start to dart around as he thinks. “Right around when we met? Maybe a little after? How long’s it been happening?”

“It’s a coincidence,” Aleks whispers, half to himself, and James takes another step closer to him. “It’s just—”

“Stop. Just stop.” He’s there, and he has to take a deep breath before he grabs both of Aleks’s shoulders; that shift of his soul doesn’t happen again, but he can feel something thrumming at the tips of his fingers. It feels alive, feels like a livewire that’s tingling just underneath Aleks’s skin. Aleks doesn’t shrink away from him, but when he looks at James there’s something unreadable in his eyes.

“This is fucking crazy,” he says, but there’s hesitation there. James laughs.

“Yeah, you think?”

“You’re not a fucking grim reaper,” Aleks says, with less conviction, and James sniffs a bit.

“Dude, you have no idea how much I wish that was true,” he replies, and now that he’s close enough, he doesn’t have to shout or raise his voice anymore. Aleks is warm, he’s _alive,_ and he’s looking at James with less and less of that uncertainty. He doesn’t move his arms down when Aleks raises one, runs his fingers along the length of James’s right arm. It doesn’t hurt so much anymore, only makes him hiss when Aleks runs delicately over the light burn there, like even now he’s still afraid of hurting him.

James can see him running things through his head, can see how Aleks is trying to process a lot of what’s happened in the last couple of months. It shows in his eyes, expressive and lively, Aleks looking back and forth between nothing at all as he starts to piece things together for real, as he starts to accept that maybe the impossible might not be so impossible after all.

He doesn’t move out from James’s grip, only says very, very quietly, “you’re not lying to me.”

“No,” James answers, and his voice is just as soft, probably the softest it’s ever been. “I’m not.”

“Then you’re crazy,” Aleks says weakly, and James shakes his head, gives him a watery laugh.

“No,” he says again, “I’m _not_.”

Watching it in Aleks’s eyes, as it all clicks into place, is vindicating and horrifying all at once. Aleks stares at him, searching James’s face for any hint of a joke, a prank, _you got Punk’d, Aleks!_ or something to help him deny what he’s starting to accept as truth. There’s not a lot of color left in his cheeks; all of it is slowly draining out as he realizes that James isn’t lying to him. Maybe it’s only because he doesn’t have another explanation to come up with, at least not one that makes sense, or maybe it’s because there _isn’t_ another explanation, but he sees it in Aleks’s eyes when he, at last, believes him.

“This is fucking insane,” he says weakly, shakes his head again, but James can tell now that it’s denial of what he _knows._ “No, this is, this is fucking insane, dude, this isn’t _real._ I’m dreaming or some shit. This isn’t real. This isn’t _happening._ ”

“It’s happening,” James tells him, doesn’t know how else to put it. “I’m sorry, Aleks, I’m _sorry—”_

“How do you know it’s me?” Aleks demands, still not moving. “It might not even be me, how do you know?”

“We get names at the beginning of the day,” James tells him, and now Aleks starts to pull away, still shaking his head. “I got yours, that morning, and I fucked up. I didn’t know it was you until you texted me.” When Aleks stares at him with wide eyes, looking scared again, James swallows. “A. Marchant. My boss gave me your name on a Post-It note.”

Aleks blinks a bunch of times, and his hands finally come up to run through his hair as he slowly backs away. James lets him, doesn’t know what else he can do. Aleks stares down at Mishka, who’s lying down on the floor and watching the proceedings curiously.

“That guy… that guy fucking shoved me in front of the train,” he says, almost as if to himself, and then looks at James in horror. “Dude, are you trying to tell me I was supposed to get run over by a fucking _train_?”

“Uh. Well.” James shrugs his shoulders a bit, because now that he’s here he realizes he is wholly unprepared for this part of the conversation. Now that he’s here he’s not sure what to do about it. “Yeah. Yeah, you… yeah.”

Aleks’s eyes are wide as he really takes that in, and it’s hard, it’s fucking hard to watch as he processes that. Any minute now James is waiting for Aleks to turn around and start denying it again, because they’re both walking on unsteady ground right now, and James isn’t sure Aleks will let him catch him if he falls. James knows all the ways he’s fucked up, and now he gets to watch as Aleks runs them through his head, as he starts to catalogue them and realize just what’s been happening.

Sure enough, Aleks’s face scrunches up as he takes another step back, and James can feel his stomach dropping.

“Why are you,” Aleks starts, stops, and his hands are shaking now. “Why did you— we went on _dates,_ James, we, we _had sex_ , why would you—why—”

The sorrow flares again, and James looks away, tears building in his eyes again.

“I liked you,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. “I really… I really liked you and I—I was lonely, and, and I didn’t know what else to do—”

“You _liked_ me,” Aleks says, laughs then, and it’s a little hysterical. “You _liked me._ Seriously?”

“I don’t need you fucking _mocking_ me, Aleks,” James snaps then, and one of the tears slips down his cheek before he can stop it. He furiously rubs it away, turns so that Aleks can’t see him fucking crying again. “Jesus, I know, okay? It’s fucking pathetic and I’m an idiot, I’m a fucking idiot, I know, just—I really liked you, man, I felt… I felt shit for you, real shit, and I just—it was real. Okay?” He repeats it, half trying to convince himself. “It was _real_.”

Aleks is silent, and when James turns to look at him, he’s just staring at James with an unreadable expression. His eyes are wet.

“What,” James says, when he can’t take the quiet anymore, and that spurs Aleks into talking.

“You _liked_ me,” he repeats, as if that’s going to solve all their problems. “God. You fucking _asshole_.”

James is all gearing up to go on the defense, even though he knows he deserves it, he _knows_ that he deserves all of Aleks’s anger and frustration, fuck, maybe even his hatred. He’s ready to go because he’s really got nothing else left except arguing—but Aleks crosses the space between them in three long strides and just takes James by the jawline, shakes him a little, and there’s a _smile_ on his face. It’s tiny and pained and it’s upset, but it’s a smile.

“Jesus, I can’t fucking believe that I thought you were just trying to _break up with me,_ ” Aleks says in a shaky voice, and kisses him.

It’s shocking enough that James doesn’t immediately respond except to kiss him back, almost melts into the touch if only because it’s the only thing that he _wants_ right now. Aleks’s hands are warm against his cheeks and he’s pressed up against him and James can feel him shaking, can feel all the tension in his muscles and that’s enough to shock him into speaking into the kiss.

“Aren’t you mad,” he says, confused and meek. Aleks laughs at him.

“I’m so fucking mad I’m, like, seeing red,” he admits, doesn’t move his hands but leans back just a little. “I’ve probably never been this mad in my fucking life.”

“Then… then why are you kissing me?”

Aleks sniffles, presses their foreheads together and just breathes.

“I mean,” he finally says, and he sounds pained, “I didn’t get run over by a goddamn train so you scored points for that, if that’s true.”

“It’s true,” James says hurriedly, cups Aleks’s elbows. Again, he can almost feel Aleks’s soul at the tips of his fingers, like it’s reaching out for him, but he ignores it in favor of repeating himself earnestly. “No, it’s true. That’s true. It’s all true, I’m sorry.”

There’s a quiet that follows, neither one of them moving from where they’re holding each other. James doesn’t know what sort of tumultuous situation he’s found himself in, and he wonders if moving is the only thing that will shatter it. It’s an odd quiet for the both of them, and it’s so fragile that James can feel it in the air.

He’s lied to Aleks about a lot of things. He has. He knows that he has, and he’s still frightened that he could ruin this, and that he’ll have to take Aleks’s soul, that Aleks will hate him in this life and the next. But Aleks just breathes against him, their foreheads touching, his hands against James’s jaw. James thinks he might be able to hear his heart pounding, and he wonders exactly what’s happening here that neither one of them want to speak.

Finally, Aleks’s fingers twitch against his skin, and he breaks the silence.

“I don’t wanna die, James,” he whispers, and James feels whatever composure he had before _break._ “Just. Tell me that it’s not real. Okay? Just. It’s not real.”

James would trade anything, _anything,_ to be able to tell Aleks what he wants to hear. He just wants to nod his head and say that it’s all a joke, it’s a mistake, it’s _something_ other than the horrid truth that James has to admit to. He can’t pretend that he understands where Aleks is coming from. He doesn’t want to _be_ dead, but he is anyway. He’s already died. There’s nothing he can do about that, and he knows there’s nothing he can do about Aleks, either.

“It’s real,” he says back, because he doesn’t know what else he can say. “I’m sorry.”

He can feel Aleks’s right hand shifting then, trailing down until it reaches James’s arm. The flat of his palm cups along all the way to his wrist and then back up again, and it doesn’t hurt at all. James shifts his head without breaking the point of contact between their heads, and glances at where his arm has finally healed. It looks as if it was never burned in the first place. Aleks’s hand clutches at his wrist, hard enough to hurt.

“So,” and finally Aleks backs away, just a little. His eyes are red, and James doesn’t want to let go of him. “Okay. Say I believe you. What… what happens now?”

James swallows hard. He knows what he has to do, but he doesn’t want to do it. He reaches out and runs the back of his fingers across Aleks’s hairline, takes in the pallor of his skin, the tiredness in his eyes. He could continue the motion, run his fingers down Aleks’s cheek and let it happen naturally. He could kiss him again, there are so any ways that he could take Aleks’s soul, do it gently and hope for the best. Aleks flinches at the touch, like he’s afraid, and James drops his hand again.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to do this.”

Aleks laughs again, backs away with his hands meeting at the crown of his skull.

“Maybe _I’m_ the crazy one,” he mutters, almost like it’s to himself. “Maybe I’m the one who’s lost my shit, you know? Maybe that’s just what this is. I finally fuckin’ snapped or something. That’s what’s going on.”

“Man, this would be so much easier if we were both nuts,” James admits, and takes a step forwards again. Aleks lets him, and when James slowly wraps him up in a hug he lets that happen, too. James isn’t a very tactile person by nature; he goes for occasional touches, anything that he initiates himself. But he can feel Aleks shaking against his chest and he—he can’t do it. He can’t.

He presses his lips to Aleks’s temple just once and then pulls away just a little, takes out his phone.

“I’m asking someone to come up here,” he explains, when Aleks shifts his head to look down at it. His eyes flick from the phone back up to James’s face, and he looks confused. “My boss. I gotta ask him something. Okay?”

“Grim reapers have bosses. Fuckin’ wild,” Aleks tries to joke, but it falls a bit flat. He still seems a bit shaken up, like he’s not even sure he believes it yet.

James types with one hand, keeps his other one wrapped up in Aleks’s shirt, keeps him pressed close. He’s wearing the long sleeves again, and it’s still such a damn shame that his tattoos are hidden. But he sends Brett a text, asks him to come upstairs, gives him the apartment number. After that he slips his hands back into Aleks’s hair; it’s dried completely now, and James’s clothes are barely damp at this point.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again. “I’m gonna try to make this right.”

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting as an answer, and he ends up not getting anything at all until a minute later, when there’s a knock on the door. Mishka goes insane again, immediately runs over to the door and starts barking wildly, and James feels Aleks stiffen from next to him.

“Come, come in,” Aleks says hesitantly, and there’s a definite pause before the door quietly clicks open. James shifts himself a little bit so that he covers Aleks a bit, so that he’s more in front. He’s not sure what he plans on shielding Aleks from, but it’s better than leaving him out in the open and vulnerable.

“Hi,” Brett says softly to Mishka, and there’s a gentle smile on his face as he shuts the door behind himself. She starts going nuts, dancing around his feet as he looks up again, and there’s something so damn weary in his expression that James almost lowers his guard a little. But James watches as his eyes land on Aleks, and he stands a little straighter.

“This is not what we discussed, James,” Brett says then, and James shakes his head.

“No, I know, I just—” he starts, falters again. Aleks’s fist is twisted in the back of his hoodie, and James can sort of see how imposing Brett must look to someone else. He’s still a bit afraid of him, but his gaze shifts downwards, and he watches as Brett opens his fingers wider to Mishka’s furious, happy licking. That itself is such a sweet, small gesture that it helps James work up his nerve, and he puffs up a bit. “I wanted to ask a favor.”

“You are… most definitely not in a position to be asking favors,” Brett says after what looks like significant consideration. His eyes move from James to Aleks, and James can tell they’re both sizing each other up from over his shoulder. He can’t help but wonder if Aleks is trying to read between the lines of their conversation, trying to pick out any clues that might let him know whether or not James is actually crazy.

“I know,” James says again, and moves back just a little bit. Aleks moves with the motion as well, and he’s being oddly silent. “But I swear, I _swear,_ Brett, that I’ll hold up my side. I swear.”

“You really don’t have a choice, you know,” Brett replies, but then he lets out a heavy sigh, takes off his hat to run his hand once through his hair before setting it back on his head. “What is it?”

It’s a long shot, but James is going to take it.

“I’ll do it tomorrow,” James says then, and Brett’s eyebrows go up at the same time that Aleks’s hand clenches harder in his hoodie. Maybe it’s out of shock. “Let me do it tomorrow, let him just—one more day. Let him have one more day, and then I’ll do it.” When Brett doesn’t answer, James resorts to begging. “Just. Please _. Please,_ Brett. One more day. That’s all I want. I’m not gonna go anywhere, I just… I want a little more time.”

Brett runs one hand down his face, rolling his head a bit to the side as he considers. His foot starts to jiggle for a couple of seconds, and then he sighs loudly.

“Fine,” he says and it’s to the ceiling. James can’t decide if Brett's fed up with his shit or just sick of playing the bad guy. It’s hard to tell. “Fine. One day, James.”

That lessens some of the tension in James’s chest, and he almost smiles, but Brett just shakes his head.

“I’ll have the others keep an eye on things while you… do what you have to,” he says. He’s still not really looking at Aleks. It seems more like he’s not really acknowledging his presence at all, but whether it’s for his own personal reasons, or simply because he doesn’t know how much Aleks knows about them, James can’t tell.

“Hey,” Aleks says suddenly, and moves just a little bit so that he’s standing more at James’s side.

Brett looks over at him, eyebrows raised, and James watches as he looks him up and down just once, takes in the sight of him before he inclines his head.

“Yeah?”

James looks between the two of them, completely unsure. Two entirely different aspects of his life suddenly meeting, and he has no idea how it’s going to go at all. But Aleks just sets his mouth a little bit, looks Brett up and down with the same motion as if he were almost mocking him. But then he breaks out into a shuddering little grin, and his hand tugs once on James’s hoodie.

“You know, James talks shit about you all the time,” he says, and there’s a little bit of that mischief in his tone that James had missed. “Like, _all_ the time.”

James squawks, startled, but Brett actually _laughs._

“Oh, I’m sure,” he says quietly when he’s finished, looking down at the floor before he glances over at James. There’s something in his eyes that James knows he’ll never be able to identify. “I’ll see you tomorrow, James.”

James nods at him, and as soon as the door’s shut he rounds on Aleks, who has begun to laugh a bit hysterically. It doesn’t sound like it’s entirely coming from a place of mirth.

“You getting me in trouble with my fuckin’ boss, man?” James says shakily, like it’s a joke, like they’re settling right back into the swing of things, like James hasn’t just set a time limit on Aleks’s _life._ “Is this your way of getting revenge?”

Aleks is still giggling, but it’s definitely growing more upset, and James watches as he curls in on himself, holding his stomach. It seems like all of it is starting to weigh down at the same time, seems like it’s hitting Aleks with too much force and he’s buckling beneath it. James reaches out to grab his shoulders, guides him towards the couch with little help from Aleks himself. He’s taking great big gulps of breath now, gasping as James forces him to sit down.

“You’re telling the truth,” Aleks finally forces out. “Oh, fuck, oh fuck. James. You’re telling the truth.”

It’s a sour victory, that Aleks finally believes him. He sinks down onto the couch and then leans forward until his forehead is touching his knees, face completely covered by his hands as he starts to shake. James runs his fingers through his hair, ignoring the tingle at the tips of his fingers, and just tries to soothe him as Aleks repeats himself, muffled by his knees.

“You’re telling the truth,” he says again, and takes a huge breath, leans back until he’s arching his neck, until he’s facing the ceiling with his eyes closed. “Holy fuck. You’re gonna—”

“It’s gonna be okay,” James says hurriedly. “It’s, it’s gonna work out, I promise, it’s gonna be okay.”

“James,” Aleks says then, tense and pained. “Shut the fuck up. I don’t, I don’t wanna hear that right now.”

James kneels down in front of him on the ground, waits until Aleks looks at him before he swallows and tries to smile. It comes out shaky, hesitant, and he reaches out again, cups Aleks’s face. He’s not even sure if it’s allowed, but Aleks leans into it just as he had in the store. That seems like a lifetime ago, as if he happened barely before James’s memory can recall.

“Whatever you want tomorrow,” James says quietly, doesn’t have anything else he can offer. “We can, we can go to the dog park or we can just lay around or, or I’ll go away and you can do whatever you want all day, I don’t care, I just—”

He’s putting so much on Aleks now, and he knows it, but Aleks just covers James’s hand with his own. He looks exhausted, but he doesn’t pull away. It seems like he’s hesitating for a second or two.

“...stay tonight,” he says, rather than asks, and James blinks a couple of times.

“...stay?” he repeats, and it fills his chest with a feeling he can’t describe. It could be happiness, it could be surprise, but from the depths of him, he knows that it’s _grief._ “You want, you want me to stay?”

Aleks nods, and their hands move with it.

“Yeah. Just. Just stay. And we’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

That’s when the dam breaks for both of them. Aleks slips down onto the floor with James and wraps his arms around him, presses his face against his neck. James doesn’t know how to respond, other than to embrace him tightly, press his nose against his hairline. He doesn’t know what he could possibly do now, other than hold Aleks and pray that whatever conversation they need to have, he’ll have the strength to follow it through.

“Okay,” he says into Aleks’s skin, and feels him start to shake against him. “Tomorrow.”


	13. wait for me to come home.

He wakes up to Aleks sleeping in his arms and a text on his phone.

It feels so normal, so right, that there’s a long time where James doesn’t want to move. He only wants to lay there and count the beats of his heart, the beats of Aleks’s. Aleks is breathing deeply and slowly, chest rising and falling where he’s wrapped up against him. He’s still alive, and the gentle thrumming of his soul underneath James’s hands has trickled down into something like a buzz that he can feel when he focuses.

He shifts as carefully as he can. James didn’t have anything to wear to bed the night before, hadn’t wanted to leave Aleks to go back to his apartment. He’s stuck in boxers and his t-shirt, jeans and hoodie thrown haphazardly somewhere before they’d crawled into the sheets the night before.

James still feels like he’s standing at the edge of a great precipice. Any motion and both of them could fall right over the edge. He holds on to Aleks a little tighter, afraid that he might go right over if James doesn’t have good grasp on him. He’s still a bit surprised that he’s here now, that Aleks not only let him stay over but _asked_. They’d sat on the floor for… James doesn’t know how long. Long enough that the sun set through the blinds, long enough that Mishka had settled down onto her front paws and watched them with mournful eyes.

Shit, he doesn’t want to move at all, but his phone buzzes again and he sighs, tries to reach out without jostling Aleks too much. Thankfully Aleks sleeps like a log, only grunts once before settling. James sniffs once, rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he opens up his messages, but the motions slow to a halt as he reads. The text from Brett is short and to the point.

_You don’t have a reap today._

He can only stare at it for a couple of seconds, blinking. He can’t help how his grip tightens just a little until his phone creaks in his fingers, but that won’t do him any good; he sets it back on the bedside table and gathers Aleks up in his arms again. Aleks goes willingly in his sleep, their knees slotting together as James wraps tightly around him and presses his nose against his nape. Mishka’s laying at their feet, but she raises her head at the movement and starts wagging her tail happily. Aleks makes a soft noise, eyebrows furrowing.

“Shh,” James whispers, though he’s not sure who he’s talking to. “It’s okay.”

Aleks breathes a sigh into the pillow and hugs it closer, all the warmth of his body pressing along James’s. He’s heavy, and his body heat is the most comforting thing in the world to James right now. He has to hold back a sigh, feeling tears well up against his closed eyelids as he curls around Aleks and just tries to breathe.

“Fuck,” he whispers. It’s still dark outside. There’s still time for him to just… savor this moment for the last time, for him to just pretend that his world’s going to go on past today. He sniffles, knocks his head once against the back of Aleks’s head because he doesn’t know what he’s going to _do._ He shouldn’t be so fucked up about this, they’ve only been dating for two months but god, _god,_ James remembers the press of Aleks’s lips against his and he’s almost gone right then and there.

Love fucking hurts. He should’ve never been so _stupid_.

Mishka gets up then, trots over to them and licks at the tears that are trekking down James’s cheeks, whines softly in his ear as she lays down again. She rests her head on his shoulder, panting, and he almost chuckles.

“Morning, beautiful,” he croaks, and she kisses him again, a little swipe of her tongue against his cheek. He reaches out with one hand to start scratching her behind her ears and they flick once at the contact. Aleks shifts from next to him, sighs in his sleep again, and it’s a moment of domesticity that James wants to tuck away forever.

It feels like hours that James lays there. Mishka settles back into sleep, licks at his cheek occasionally when he moves and wakes her up again, but Aleks sleeps soundly on. James starts to stroke his hair gently with the back of his fingers, runs his knuckles through soft brown strands in a repetitive motion that keeps him calm, keeps the grief settled in his chest instead of pouring out of him in great waves of sorrow.

He promised Brett he’d do this. He knows he _has_ to, because Aleks is only going to get worse, but it’s going to be the hardest thing he’ll ever have to do.

The sun starts to rise eventually. It casts a soft orange light in the room, bathes everything in the warmth of autumn as Aleks sleeps soundly on, as James breathes in time with him and nothing else. He can hear the city coming to life outside, can hear the rustle of the few trees in the gentle morning breeze. Birds chirp outside, lovely and sharp. It’s all such a dissonance to what has to happen today that James can almost pretend it won’t.

Eventually Aleks wakes up. It’s a slow process, one that James manages to get through by continuously petting him, pretending that his eyes aren’t vacant and empty like they had been that one morning. Aleks comes back into himself gradually, leans into the soothing touches with a soft noise as his eyes flutter shut again. He’s warm, smells like sleep, and James kisses his temple very gently.

“Morning,” he says, tries to be aloof. His voice cracks instead. “How’s your head?”

Aleks takes a long breath through his nose, opens his eyes again. Up close, and in the light from the morning sun, they’ve gone a beautiful tawny color, almost golden around his contracted pupils. He’s fucking gorgeous. James sniffs, rests his head on one arm so that he can recline, watch as Aleks stares at him for a long moment.

“...I wasn’t dreaming,” he says at last, doesn’t answer the question. “...unless, unless I was? You… you still a grim reaper?”

James laughs very softly, without any real mirth. He doesn’t know what to say to that but his silence is answer enough, and Aleks sighs, looks up at the ceiling. His eyes go a bit wet before he swipes his arm across them, speaks while it’s still pressed to the bridge of his nose.

“You think I got time to run?”

It’s clearly meant to be a joke but there’s a real question under it, and James lays his head down, lets his knuckles rest against the wall. Fuck. He doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want this day to happen. He just wants to stay in this bed forever, and say fuck it to every responsibility he’s ever had. When he doesn’t answer again, Aleks brings his arm down and looks over at him. He must see something in James’s expression because he turns away again, his mouth growing thin as he blinks too quickly up at the ceiling.

“This is real,” he says quietly. “Fuck.”

“What do you want to do today?” James asks, rather than giving a proper response. Aleks laughs humorlessly, chest heaving with it like he wants to cry instead.

“I don’t know,” he says hoarsely, thickly, “I don’t really wanna die today. Can we start with that?”

James swallows, turns his head as he tries to keep his expression in check. It comes out of him in the form of a breath pushed hard past his teeth, eyes clenched tightly shut until he can roll over again. Aleks is on his back by now, watching James’s every move. Mishka wakes up again and she’s immediately walking on top of James and over to Aleks, settling down in front of him and licking his face happily.

“Mishka,” he says through the kisses, sputtering a little, “Mishka, come on.”

“She gives better good morning kisses than I ever could,” James says, scratching her butt, and Aleks laughs softly, carefully pushing her away and rubbing her up and down her muzzle a couple of times. Her tail thwacks James in the face and he pushes away with a raspberry, flapping his hands. It gets Aleks to laugh again, louder but with more restrained pain than before.

“Yeah,” he says softly, and when she starts to lick his face again he doesn’t stop her. It occurs to James that he’s doing it because it’s the last time it’ll ever happen, and his heart clenches painfully in his chest. His phone goes off on the bedside table again and he’s almost afraid of it, afraid of what he’s going to find when he picks it up. But Aleks sniffs once and reaches out, takes the phone in hand and passes it to James without a word. It’s such a simple, polite little gesture but it _hurts,_ it feels so natural.

He takes it, and their fingers brush gently during the crossover. He swallows, takes a look at his messages again.

It’s from Joe. James hasn’t gotten to talk to him once since the fire, and his throat closes up as he reads Joe’s message quickly, reads it a second time until the phone goes a little blurry.

_Brett told us what’s going on. I’m here for you if you need me. Love you, brother._

It hurts. Oh, it fucking hurts. It reminds him so much of Seamus in that moment, reminds him of Jordan, it reminds him of his old life because even now he still has someone who has his back, who’s seen the worst of him and still fucking _cares._ God, it hurts so bad and he mirrors what Aleks had done before, covers his eyes with his arm and just takes in a shuddering breath.

Aleks is quiet from next to him, only sniffs once like he’s not sure what to say. A moment later James’s phone buzzes again, and he’s almost afraid to look. He can’t imagine what else it could be, _who_ else it could be, but when he peeks out he catches Trevor’s name and doesn’t look again. It’s likely Joe pushed him into saying something, too, but James can’t bear to read it.

He turns his phone off, because he can’t face whatever Trevor has to say to him. He’s ruined his friendship with Brett, and he doesn’t know how he still has one with Joe, but what he’s done must surely be unforgivable to Trevor.

“You okay?” Aleks asks softly, and James wants to laugh.

“I should be asking you that,” he says thickly, instead of answering. He puts his phone on the bedside table again, looks over at Aleks and tries to think of what to say. “How do you feel?”

Aleks is quiet for a long time, picking absently at a strand of thread coming out of the duvet they’re under. His eyes are distant, and James has enough time to grow nervous when he speaks. It’s like Aleks doesn’t quite know what he’s supposed to say, and it comes through in his tone.

“I feel like any other day,” he says, and focuses again on James’s face. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m still in denial.”

James huffs a laugh, looks up towards the ceiling when his eyes try to well up again. They lay in silence for a while longer. James has his hands clasped loosely against his stomach, but Aleks reaches out and takes one in both of his own, studies it for a moment before he speaks.

“You died,” he says, and James nods his head.

“Sure did.”

Aleks’s nose twitches once, almost like he’s about to smile. But he turns James’s hand over, stares at the back, works at his fingers for a moment like it’s a massage before he continues.

“What did it feel like?”

That’s the million dollar question. James wishes he could tell him, wishes he even had the answer, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t remember dying, which is a small mercy, he knows. He watches as Aleks plays with his hand, tries to think of what he could possibly say in return.

“I don’t know,” he finally admits. Aleks doesn’t stop playing with his fingers, but James knows that he’s paying close attention. “I don’t remember dying. But… but I help people who die, and I, you know, help them get to the other side.” He swallows. “It looks nice. You’re gonna have a, a great time, dude, and then I’ll get to go there one day, too.”

“Why aren’t you there now?” Aleks asks, eyebrows furrowed. “You do somethin’ bad?

James wrinkles his nose at him.

“No, I didn’t do something _bad,_ you, you prick. I got fucked over by the system. Totally random.” He looks up towards the ceiling again, but this time it’s to glare at whatever otherworldly being made the system in the first place. “Guess God has a shitty sense of humor.”

“That…” Aleks trails off for a second or two. “Jesus. That sucks.”

James hums, and Aleks gently puts his hand down, rolls over onto his back so that their shoulders are touching, just barely. Mishka lays in the space between the two of them, yawns hugely as she lays her head down on her paws and watches the two of them in interest. Aleks’s hand comes up and he starts to pet her, blinking a few times before he sighs.

“I need to take her for a walk,” he says.

Maybe he means for it to come out casual, but his voice catches at the end and he chokes on it; James has half a second to react before Aleks is suddenly covering his face with both hands, taking a deep and shuddering breath. To James’s horror it comes back out in a sob, Aleks’s face crumpling underneath his own palms as he tries to contain himself. Mishka starts to whine, standing up on the bed, but Aleks shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he chokes out, and James is utterly lost. “Fuck. Sorry. I feel… I feel weird, god, I’m sorry, dude.”

It feels like a century ago, but James can still remember what being freshly dead was like. A sour, acrid taste on the back of his tongue, an innate _knowledge_ of it when the facts were presented to him. Aleks isn’t dead, but he’s sure got one foot in Death’s threshold so to speak, and James wonders if he can already feel it. If he just knows, in his heart, that no matter how bizarre the situation might be, it’s true.

“It’s okay,” he says, and he’s not sure what he means by that. “Aleks, it’s okay, don’t— don’t apologize, okay? Don’t.”

Aleks makes another choked off sound, high and trembling. Mishka does something like an army crawl on all four legs and starts licking at his face in a meager attempt to comfort him. She’s a good dog, and it seems to calm Aleks somewhat because he takes his hands away, sits up enough that he can bury his face in her fur. James feels completely out of his element, doesn’t know what he can do to soothe this.

“Part of me,” Aleks says, sobs once again before he continues, “part of me just wants you to get it over with. I don’t, I don’t wanna fucking die, James, but sitting around _knowing_ it’s gotta happen is hell, man, I—”

It’s like he can’t even finish his sentence. It’s coming out of him in waves, just absolute misery that James doesn’t know what to do with. He’s felt it himself but to feel it from someone he cares a great deal about, someone he _loves,_ it’s… it’s a nightmare, and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s never been very good at comforting people, only because he’s so damn awkward at things like that, has too much social anxiety in situations that can’t be solved with a laugh or even a smile. This isn’t something that can be solved, so James does the only thing he can think of. He just sits up too, wraps his arms tight around Aleks’s upper half and just rocks him gently back and forth, feels him taking huge, sobbing breaths as he tries to get a hold of himself. It’s the only comforting thing he really knows how to do.

“I’m still hoping you’re gonna, gonna whip out a fuckin’ camera and tell me it’s all a huge joke,” Aleks says into James’s forearm, clutches at him while they rock. “It’s so fucked up, it’s like, it’s like I _know_ it’s real, I can’t talk myself outta believing it.”

“You just wanna run away,” James says, not a question. Aleks nods.

“I thought about it,” he whispers, turns his face enough against James’s arm that he can look at him. “Thought about leaving while you were asleep and getting Mishka and whatever shit I could carry and booking it, just, just fuckin’ leaving and getting as far away as I could so that you couldn’t… couldn’t do it. But I didn’t.”

“Why?” James asks softly, slowly coming to a halt, and Aleks sniffs.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Any fuckin’ sane person would. Maybe I’m not sane.”

“You were dating _me_ ,” James cracks then, can’t help the watery giggle. “Of course you’re fucking insane.”

Aleks is still shaking against him, but he manages to crack a grin at that. He smears his runny nose all over James’s arm, getting him to squawk loudly, and says, “technically I’m still dating you, fucker.”

“Technically,” James corrects immediately, and wipes his arm on Aleks’s shoulder, “you’re _not._ You fuckin’ broke up with me. For good reason, yeah, but you still broke up with me. So.”

“Oh.” Aleks ponders that for a moment. James can see how he runs his fingers along where the burn had been, seems to remember the words he’d snarled at him while smoke choked them all. “Well. Hmm. I guess I did.”

That sends a pang right through James’s heart that he ignores.

“I mean, I super deserved it,” he admits. “But I had to go with Joe, he’s, uh, he’s another reaper, because we’re not supposed to go to hospitals or talk to the police or nothing like that, it… can raise a lot of questions. Where’s the huge fuckin’ burn on my arm that needed skin grafts an hour ago, for example.”

Aleks is quiet for a minute, and then he laughs softly but doesn’t say anything else. He just sniffles once, lets his temple rest against James’s shoulder as they sit in bed, Mishka curled up and half-asleep at their feet. It’s warm and it’s pleasant, something homey that James could drown himself in.

Finally Aleks sniffs again and says, “you wanna go to the dog park?”

James laughs, a pained little sound.

“Like a date?”

Aleks nods.

“Like a date.”

Aleks’s hair is soft where James runs his hand through it once, lets the strands catch between his fingers. Aleks leans into it, eyes closing, sighs from deep in his chest. He sounds tired, more than just physically, and James wants to rock him again, doesn’t want to leave the room ever. He just wants to comfort Aleks in whatever way he can. It brings tears to his eyes again that he blinks back.

“Yeah, okay,” he says quietly. “Let’s go to the dog park.”

Mishka perks up at the sound of that, tail thumping against the bed excitedly. It makes Aleks laugh again, just a small little sound before he starts to shift, starts to slide off the bed once James lets him. James watches a bit curiously as he starts to gather clothes and heads off to take a shower. It’s such a normal little thing, as if it’s just another day, and James doesn’t question it. He just plays with Mishka for a little bit, listening to the faint sounds of the water against the tiles.

James doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know _how_ he’s going to be able to do this at all, so he just gets dressed, too. Mishka dances around at his feet and he laughs a little, rubs the top of her head until she’s panting up at him. As soon as he’s done he sits on the edge of the bed and she jumps up next to him, lays her head down on his lap. It makes him miss Ein so much that his breath catches, but he rubs at her fur until Aleks comes back in.

He’s got his backpack slung over his shoulder, and when he catches sight of the two of them he smiles as if to himself, crosses the room to sit down next to James so that their thighs are just barely touching.

James isn’t really sure how long they sit there. It could be for a minute, could be for five, could be for thirty. They both just sit silently, Aleks’s backpack held loosely between his legs. The light shining in through the window is bright and crisp, the cloudless blue sky and cheerful breeze of an early fall setting the tone as Aleks finally sighs and stands up again. Mishka raises her head at the same time that James turns his.

“Come on,” Aleks says, and clears his throat. “We should head out.”

Mishka jumps off the bed immediately, but James has to swallow and steel himself before he stands, too. He has nothing to say, so he doesn’t. It’s an odd feeling. He just watches as Aleks straps Mishka to her leash, gives her a kiss on her wet nose and scruffs up her face before they head out the door.

The walk to the park is quiet. Mishka dances around and barks at people happily, excited to be outside, but James simply can’t seem to muster up any words that could do anything for the situation. Aleks is silent from next to him, too, except for the occasional shout towards his dog, and it feels… so strange, to be here now. James has never been a very open person when it comes to his private life, but he musters up the strength to reach out and loosely tangle his fingers with Aleks’s. It’s just a small gesture, hidden by how closely they’re walking, but Aleks lets out a breath and squeezes his hand tightly, won’t let go until they reach the dog park.

James can’t help but scan the people briefly, but he doesn’t catch sight of Jordan or Ein. Small mercy. Aleks finally lets go of James’s hand and leans down to unclip Mishka as soon as the gate is closed. She takes off like a bullet, barking happily at the other dogs as they all start to dance around each other. It brings a smile to Aleks’s face, and fills James with a shame that makes him want to scream and cry and throw up. He doesn’t want to _do_ this.

“You know,” Aleks says as they sit down on the grass, backs against the fence, “I thanked you that day.”

James clears his throat awkwardly, keeps his eyes firmly on the herd of dogs all sniffing at each other, tails wagging happily.

“Yeah.”

Aleks sighs deeply, sounds almost impatient as he rubs at his face.

“I don’t,” he starts, stops, seems to really hesitate. “I don’t really… know how to say this, okay? So just. Just let me say it and don’t interrupt or, or anything, just.” He takes a deep breath as James turns to look at him, frowning, but Aleks barrels on. “Look, I… I knew you saved my life and now I know that was _supposed_ to happen, I guess, so I just… I just wanted to say thank you again.”

“You don’t—”

“Shut the fuck up. I said don’t interrupt me.” Aleks knocks his forehead against his own knees, squints up at the sky. “I could’ve been flattened by a subway train and that would’ve fucking sucked, okay? That’s what was supposed to happen and it didn’t because you, you messed up, and I get that, but.”

He’s quiet for long enough that James thinks he might be able to speak again, but Aleks growls irritably into his hands and mumbles, “I was supposed to die two months ago, James. And instead I got, I got two months of _you,_ of, of being happy and. And in love. And,” his voice breaks, “I don’t want to lose that.”

James doesn’t say anything for a minute, but when he does he’s shocked at how hoarse and thick his own voice is.

“I don’t actually look like this,” he whispers, and Aleks blinks at him. “If we’re gonna, uh, if we’re gonna do the tearful love confessions,” and here he closes his eyes and sniffs hard, “you should know that, at least. This isn’t what I really look like.”

Aleks contemplates that for a moment.

“I guess that makes sense,” he says, almost to himself. “So what do you look like?”

“I don’t have any pictures,” James mutters, thinks of his phone, turned off in his pocket. “Not like this, though. I guess I’ve just been lying to you from the start.”

Aleks chuckles a little.

“Dude, yeah, well, you’re dead, so.”

That gets James to laugh too, and he swipes quickly at his eyes with his hands, clears his throat and straightens out his back. Mishka runs back over to them, leaves in her fur and a happy doggy smile on her face as she shoves between Aleks’s legs and butts into his hands with her head. He rubs her up and down, speaks again.

“James, I want you to do something for me.” When James looks over at him inquisitively, he rubs his thumb along the top of her head and says, “I want you to take Mishka.”

James thinks his entire body has frozen, but at the same time he can feel a vibration in his chest that expands outward towards the tips of his fingers, all the way down to his toes. It feels like missing the final step on a staircase, his heart jumping overdramatically as he says breathlessly, “ _what?_ ”

Aleks’s voice is getting thick as he stares down at his beloved dog, and James can see him swallow. “She loves you, dude. And you, you don’t have a dog and I know you love her too and…” James can see his eyes filling with tears. “I know you’ll take care of her.”

“This sounds too much like goodbye already,” James protests, shaking his head. “No, _no,_ Aleks, I _can’t—_ ”

“James, _please._ ” He looks at him, Mishka wrapped up between his arms. She seems to understand that the situation is serious, because she’s more or less still, only licks at Aleks’s face once. “Please.”

He can’t help but think of Jordan, of Ein, as he stares at Mishka’s pretty face, with her mask markings and her bright eyes. She pants at him from the circle of Aleks’s arms, and James isn’t sure he could ever truly recover from this with her in his care. But she barks once at him, ears flicking, and he looks up at Aleks’s pleading face, and it clicks into place like a key in a lock. There are more tears in his eyes, but he nods his head.

“Okay,” he manages, and Aleks’s entire body sags in relief.

“Okay,” he repeats, and presses his face to the top of Mishka’s head. He looks like he might be crying, and he speaks into her fur. “Thank you, James.”

It fucking hurts. It’s like a knife, stabbing into James’s heart over and over again as Aleks holds Mishka close and shakes a little. She’s patient about it, like she knows, and James realize how cruel he’s truly been. His life was over in an instant, he never had the chance to come to terms with losing Ein, with losing his mother, with losing his life. Now he’s forced Aleks to have to do it. It had felt like a kindness when he made that decision, but now he feels like the worst kind of _monster._

“I’m sorry,” he says out loud, past the pain. “God, Aleks, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Aleks shakes his head, laughs.

“I can’t even be mad at you,” he says weakly, rubs his cheek against Mishka’s head again. “These have been the best two months of my life.”

“I don’t know why,” James says miserably, staring down at his own hands as the wind rustles the trees around them. “You spent ‘em with me, the asshole who did all this to you in the first place.”

“Like I said,” Aleks says, and smiles at him. It’s just a little twitch of the lips, but it’s a smile nonetheless. “Best two months of my life.”

They sit there. James doesn’t check his watch at all, because he never wants the day to come to an end. Aleks sits next to him, eventually leans so that they’re thigh-to-thigh and shoulder-to-shoulder, gently knocks the side of his head against James’s so that they’re touching in as many places as they can. James doesn’t know how he could’ve ever earned Aleks’s forgiveness, how Aleks could even still bear to _look_ at him, let alone… let alone be in love with him.

Eventually he starts to talk, a nervous tic that followed him into death. He tells Aleks about his friends, about all the shenanigans they used to get up to. He talks about Ein, the time he had to shave her completely, and that gets Aleks to laugh again. He talks about his mother, he talks about how he got his attitude from her. Eventually he runs out of shit to talk to so he starts talking about his new family. He talks about Joe and Trevor, and their kindness those first few weeks. He talks about how scared he was that first day, he talks about how he was late the day he was supposed to take Aleks’s soul, talks about how happy their coffee date had made him.

“I had such a fuckin’ crush on you,” he says, and turns his head so that he can press a kiss to Aleks’s temple. “You cute little shit.”

Aleks looks like he almost wants to preen.

“You were the one who fuckin’ saved my life, you, you heroic _asshole._ ”

James laughs a bit at that, because he doesn’t know what else to _do._ He doesn’t know how else to approach any of this. It makes sense, because it’s not like he has a manual for any of this. So he just holds Aleks a little closer, presses his nose against Aleks’s forehead and just breathes. Aleks doesn’t object at all, and again they let a silence fall over both of them.

Eventually, he has to check the time. They’ve been at the park for hours now, just watching as the people and dogs switch out, as Mishka runs to greet the newcomers and then comes back to sit with them. Aleks catches him looking at his watch and he sighs, looks away again but James can feel a tremor starting in his shoulders.

“We need to bring Mishka to your place,” is what he says, and James drops his arm again. “I brought her stuff with me in my bag.”

“You’re sneaky,” James says, not looking at him, and Aleks laughs.

“No. I was just hoping you’d say yes.”

James sighs, presses his face into the space between his knees. Of course he’d say yes. Aleks can pretend all he wants that he didn’t really know what James would say, but fuck. James was always going to say yes.

The walk back is slow. Aleks clips Mishka back onto her leash and they take the long way back to James’s apartment, their fingers tangled up together again. They stop at a street vendor and buy hot dogs to eat for lunch; Aleks buys an extra one to give to Mishka while they sit on a nearby bench. It still feels like the day could end like any other, it feels like they’re going to go back to James’s apartment and stay the night there, and they’re going to wake up and go to their separate jobs, and life is going to go on.

When they get to James’s apartment Mishka immediately starts to run around, sniffs everything she can in the excitement of finding a new place. Only a few days ago Brett had been sitting on his couch, telling him the truth of it all, and now here James is.

Aleks touches the Post-It still stuck to his fridge, and James sees understanding light up in his eyes. Neither one of them say anything about it. Aleks just starts going through his bag, and James laughs as he tugs out her bowls, a big bag of dog food, a couple of toys. As if James isn’t going to spoil her rotten anyway.

The crinkle of the plastic is loud when Aleks clenches at it, takes another deep breath. James can offer no platitudes, because he doesn’t know what to _say._ Maybe there’s nothing _to_ say, from either of them. Aleks just drops to the floor as Mishka runs up to him again, panting wildly and her nails clicking on the kitchen floor. It’s so remarkably similar to when James said goodbye to Ein that he has to turn away, walk somewhere into the living room and let Aleks have a moment alone.

He can vaguely hear Aleks muttering, all in Russian, affectionate and sweet and choked up, and James hates himself a little more. If nothing else but to distract himself he pulls out his phone, finally presses the power button. As the screen lights up he swallows hard past the lump in his throat, waits for his messages to update.

_**Trevor (3)** _

He takes a deep breath and clicks it.

_Hey. i don’t really know what to say i guess._

Yeah. Well.

_Listen this is really weird and uncomfortable and i don’t even know what i want to say about it but i know you didn’t know so i guess i’ll see you tomorrow?_

James almost doesn’t want to read the last message, but he takes a deep breath.

_You’re still my friend james_

That manages to bring a smile to his face, watery and twitching. He doesn’t deserve any of them, he doesn’t deserve these people who so easily forgive him for such a _terrible_ thing. He shoves his phone back into his pocket and stares up at the ceiling, blinking back the tears. By far the worst day he’s ever had, alive or dead. He doesn’t know how he’s going to be able to face any of them tomorrow. He puts his hands on his hips and sighs loudly, taps his foot a few times as he tries to pull himself together.

“We should go,” Aleks mutters, at his side suddenly. James doesn’t jump, only blinks hard and nods his head as Aleks threads their fingers together again.

Mishka makes herself comfortable on the couch, and Aleks crouches down one more time, fluffs up all her fur and smiles. She licks his face and James pretends he doesn’t hear the returning sob.

The return to Aleks’s apartment is odd. Aleks walks slowly, and at first James thinks it must be because of what has to happen when they get there. But as they keep walking James realizes that he’s _tired,_ that he’s blinking slowly and he has to tug him along now and again. At one crosswalk he stares off into the distance with that same vacant look in his eyes as before, and James grounds himself with a deep inhale and leads the way.

He knows. He knows what he has to do, and it hurts, but he has to do it.

“You know,” Aleks says when the door closes behind them. “I’ve never done a walk to my death before. I do not recommend.”

It’s so blase that James can only blink at him for a second before he answers.

“I ran. Also don’t recommend.”

Aleks laughs, leans his back against the door. It’s late in the afternoon at this point, and the light coming in through the blinds has started to turn a rich orange. James has no idea how they managed to spend most of the day out, but between all the walking, and the hours they spent at the park, the time flew faster than it ever had before. Suddenly they’re here, and it’s time, and James _doesn’t want to._

“How does this work?” Aleks asks, and his voice is trembling. “Like… what do you do? Can you tell me? Does it hurt?”

James hurries over to him immediately, because he’s begun to shake hard enough that the door is rattling, wraps him up tight in his arms as Aleks clutches at the back of his shirt. He’s shaking so badly that James can feel it himself, and he tucks Aleks’s face into his shoulder.

“No, no, it doesn’t hurt,” he says, and his voice is shattered. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Fuck,” Aleks says, and then louder, “oh, fuck, James, I don’t wanna die.”

“It’s gonna be fine,” James tries to soothe, starts petting at his hair. He doesn’t know what else to do, what else he can say. “I promise, it’s—it’s gonna be fine. You won’t even feel it.”

Platitudes are worthless, and he knows they are, but they seem to bring Aleks some small amount of comfort. He’s still clutching at James but the shaking has subsided a bit. James has nothing to work off of but he knows it won’t hurt, he’s done it to so many people and they never noticed. He knows it’ll be quick, easy, he doesn’t know _why_ he knows that but he just _does._ They stand there in the kitchen by the door, Aleks’s face hidden in James’s shoulder, until he nods his head.

“Fuck,” he says again, and it sounds scared. “Fuck, _fuck,_ fuck—”

“I love you,” James says in a rush, desperate, and again he’s started to cry. He hates it. “Aleks, I’m so sorry. I love you so much. I never fucking said it. I’m stupid, I should’ve said it, all those shitty stupid romance movies are right. I love you.”

He can feel where Aleks’s fingers clench up in his shirt, and he digs his nose into James’s shoulder with a nuzzling motion, lets out the wateriest laugh that James has ever heard. James can’t do this. Oh, fuck. Again they have to stand there and try to will motion back into their limbs, because neither one of them want to cut off the embrace.

“I love you too,” Aleks says into his shoulder, but emerges to press a kiss to his lips. “God. You asshole.”

It gets James to laugh, gets him to cling to Aleks even tighter as he kisses him back, and eventually they find it in themselves to head towards the bedroom. They tumble down onto the mattress, much as they had the first night they slept together, and James lifts himself up onto an elbow to stare at Aleks below him. He’s beautiful, even with the bags under his eyes and the fear in his expression. The air in the room is stifling, neither of them able to say anything.

It’s time. They both know it. James runs his thumb down Aleks’s cheek, stares at him for a long time as Aleks stares right back.

“I still wish I was alive,” James says finally, and Aleks looks confused until he continues. “I miss a lot of things about my old life. I really do. But,” he hesitates, doesn’t want it to sound like a cheesy romcom but there’s no other way to _put_ it, “dying is also the whole reason I met you. So not all of it’s gonna be bad. You know?”

Aleks’s hand presses to his chest, fingers splayed over his heart.

“You’re gonna be there one day, right?” he asks, sitting up so that they’re face to face, not breaking that point of contact. James can feel the moment building, and he knows. They’re both staring at each other, Aleks’s hand twisting into his shirt. He’s trembling again. “You said so, you said that one day you’ll get to, to move on, you said that.”

He nods, tries not to let his misery show on his face.

“One day. And I’ll find you there, right?”

Aleks huffs his odd little laugh, closes his eyes as another wave of exhaustion must overtake him. His eyebrows come together, and James can see the tears that are gathering in the corner of his eyes as he starts to nod. James can feel him shaking, gently at first but then great spasms of fear until he’s hiccuping once, nodding too fast. They’re so close together that they’re practically kissing; James can feel him talking against his lips.

“Yeah,” he says in a rush, eyes shut tight. James touches his cheek, tender, light. “I’ll see you there.”

“You ready?” James can hear the break in his own voice.

“Ready,” Aleks repeats, and opens his eyes again.

The pull of it is strange. Aleks’s soul is withered and feeble, curled at the edges when James trails his fingertips down his cheek. But it clings to the tips of his fingers, grateful and prepared to move on at last.

So gently, finally, James tugs.

Aleks gasps softly, more a weak little inhale than anything. It gusts across James’s lips, a prayer, soft and loving and startled all at once. The gold trail follows and then stays, pauses, _burns_ ; it’s so warm where Aleks’s soul shimmers and twists, a galaxy, a hurricane, a short lifetime of laughter and tears and pain and love. James is holding everything Aleks ever was at his fingertips, and then it’s drifting away like dust, out into the quiet of the room. He can’t help the tear that rolls down his cheek, but cold, weak fingers brush it away.

It happens quickly. James watches as Aleks’s hand drops and his eyes flicker, go unfocused, watches as his head starts to loll back, as his breath slows. Gently, he wraps his arms around Aleks’s torso, pulls his body against his as it starts to go limp. There’s a sob trying to tear itself out of his throat, but he won’t let it. He keeps his arms wrapped tight around his waist, hugs him closer to himself and buries his nose into thick brown hair, takes in the smell of it one last time.

Aleks is heavy against him, heavy and cold, his cheek resting against James’s shoulder as his eyes flicker shut. James can feel how his heartbeat slows, only a few beats, and when it stutters to a halt, it feels like the entire world turns on its axis, and more tears start to trickle down before he can stop them. Fuck. It crashes down onto him at once, the reality of it, the inevitability, the fucking _pain._ It hurts. It hurts more than anything else he has ever felt in his entire life.

Aleks is dead. That’s the end of it, no more to it and nothing else James can possibly do.

Colors shake and lights shudder wildly, and then it all focuses sharply when he blinks the tears away, but they won’t stop. It’s coming out of him quicker now, this raw sorrow as he holds Aleks’s body against his, this pain he’ll never be able to put a name to. It trails down his cheeks in a steady stream, agony pouring out of him in waves as his breath shudders. He has to lay Aleks down, makes sure that his head settles against the pillow gently, runs his hand through his hair again.

“You cry like that for everyone or am I just special?”

James twitches his head hard to the side, sniffs as obnoxiously as he can as he swipes at his nose with his wrist.

“Stop being such a damn asshole,” he says thickly and turns. “I’m mourning you, bitch.”

Maybe Aleks has a retort on the tip of his tongue, but as soon as they make eye contact again his lips part in shock, eyes widening as he takes one step back. James studies him briefly. He looks exactly the same, the identical twin to his body on the bed, which is odd; James would’ve expected him to look worse for the wear, given that he was _rotting._ But he… he looks fine.

“Holy shit,” Aleks breathes, and steps up again, tilting his head. “...James?”

It hits him then. The dead can see them for who they are. Aleks’s gaze sweeps over him entirely, at his arms and the tattoos there, stares at his hair and his beard, before settling onto his face. He looks absolutely dumbfounded.

James sniffs again, holds his arms out.

“Ta-da,” he says, gives a bit of a little jazz hand. “What do you think?”

Aleks blinks at him a bunch of times, and James feels like he’s being intensely scrutinized. He knows they don’t really have time for this, but he still lets Aleks stare at him, reach out and run his hand down his cheek. James knows that after those near two months of one face, it must be startling to suddenly see his _real_ one. He leans into the touch and sniffles again, slowly gets off the bed so that he can stand in front of Aleks instead.

“This is what you really look like?” he asks, and he sounds stunned. “Like… when you were alive, this was you?”

“Yeah,” James says, shrugs his shoulders. “I know it’s not much, but it’s what I got.”

Aleks looks like he has something else to say, but both of their attentions are grabbed by the shimmering light beginning to pool near the door. James watches with a weight in his stomach as Aleks turns, as the golden light starts to form into shapes. It’s as soothing and ultimately inaccessible as it’s ever been, and James has never wanted his lights more than this exact moment. He rests his chin on Aleks’s shoulder, nudges towards it with that contact.

“There you go,” he says quietly. “All for you.”

The lights have slowly shifted to form a house. It’s a nice little one, something that looks like it belongs in a sweet little suburban town, with a garage and a porch, a nice lawn, trees on either side. He supposes that it must be the house that Aleks grew up in, or perhaps a family member’s house. Aleks doesn’t comment on it, only stares at it with wide eyes. It looks beautiful, ethereal and beyond anything James can comprehend.

“You’ve gotta go now, Aleks,” he says, and tries to keep his voice steady, tries to force down the misery that wants to well up again. “It’s not gonna be there forever.”

Aleks makes a soft noise, like he’s mesmerized by it, but he doesn’t move. James gives him a gentle shove. It gets him to move a little bit, just a single step towards the house, but he turns again and looks James in the eye. He doesn’t say anything immediately; instead he just touches his fingers to his cheek one last time.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the two of them. James presses his hand over Aleks’s, nuzzles into it so that his beard scrapes against his palm. Aleks’s eyes are flicking all over, taking in the sight of him, until James finally gives him a kiss to his palm, gestures with his chin towards the lights.

“Go, Aleks,” he says softly. “We’ll see each other again.”

“You better fuckin’ swear it,” Aleks warns him, not turning around, and James breathes, nods his head.

“I fuckin’ _swear,_ Aleksandr, Jesus.” All he has are the faux irritable words, because if he tries to say something soft and loving, he’ll never make it. He’ll break right then and there. “Now go to your damn afterlife.”

That must be what Aleks needed to hear, because he nods with a deep breath, turns around to stare at the house again. James doesn’t know how long this thing is going to last, because people don’t tend to argue with him that much on the subject, but he gives Aleks a firm push that has him stumbling a little bit.

Aleks turns once more, though. They stare at each other, as the golden light casts a beautiful glow across Aleks’s face. It reminds James of their first date, Aleks bathed in orange light, smiling at him from across a dinner table. He waves, chest tightening, and Aleks gives him a small smile before he turns for the last time, steps into the lights as they fade and take him with it.

The room is quiet, and into that quiet James lets out a wail.

He doesn’t know how long he’s there in Aleks’s bedroom, crouched down on his knees and clutching at his chest while he tries to cry all the pain out of himself. Aleks’s body is only a few feet away on the bed, and he doesn’t want to leave it there but he _has_ to, he can’t let himself be incriminated in any sort of fucking _murder._ He can’t be in the apartment any longer but he can’t go outside either, not until he can somehow pull the pieces of himself back together.

Any semblance of composure he had for the majority of the day just crumbles into ashes until he has to press his forehead to the floor. He did this to himself, and he knows he did, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting any less. He considers again just giving up, just letting himself succumb to the tragedy of death and all the pain that comes with it, let himself drift off into nothingness just to fucking _escape_ this for even a moment. But then he’ll break his promise to Aleks, and that’s one thing he can’t bring himself to do.

All of his breath is punched out of him in wheezes and short, miserable little sounds until he can bring himself to stand up again, wipe at his eyes and just try to exist for a moment. None of it is his responsibility anymore. He only hopes that maybe Eddie will notice that something’s wrong and try to come over, and Aleks’s body won’t be here for too long.

The thought of that is what propels him out of the room, out into the living room and then he’s leaving, he’s moving as fast as he can without bringing attention to himself until he’s out on the street. The world bustles around him, not a single person acknowledging that James’s entire life has just crumbled around him, and he ducks into an alleyway and wipes at his tears until he looks like a person again.

It’s starting to be replaced, the misery. It’s become something more of an emptiness the longer he allows himself to feel it. James has felt grief before, many times in fact, but this is a whole new level that he’s never experienced. He fumbles for his phone in his pocket, types out a text with hands that are shaking too hard. He gets a response in short order, and he starts to make his way down the street. The pit in his chest grows, sorrow that he can’t escape, and the entire journey might’ve been a blur if something didn’t catch the corner of his eye.

He looks over to find three gravelings sitting in a tree next to him. All three are staring at him unblinkingly, unmoving, their gnarled fingers wrapped around the branches. He just stares right back, unsure and worried. Were they here to attack him, get their revenge? He has no idea what to do, but they don’t attack. They just stare at him until, one by one, they finally creep up into the branches and then leap onto the roof of the building on his other side.

James watches them go, and it’s only when they’re out of sight that he starts to walk again.

By the time he gets to the Waffle Haus, Brett’s already there, sitting on a bench outside and staring down at his clasped hands. He looks up too sharply when he hears James coming and stands up immediately, but James just shakes his head, won’t look at him.

“I did it,” he mumbles, and after a long moment of contemplation, Brett carefully takes him by the wrist. Briefly James considers wrenching his arm away, running home as fast as he can. Yes, he’d asked Brett to meet him, but now that they’re here, he doesn’t want to face Brett, doesn’t want to see the disappointment and frustration in his eyes. Maybe even hatred. More tears quiver in his eyes and he brushes at them with his shoulder.

“Come sit down,” Brett says instead, and his voice is soft. Timid, maybe, but it bodes no argument. James nods, and lets Brett pull him back towards the bench.

“Listen, I…” Whatever he wants to say must die on his tongue; Brett just trails off, and James closes his eyes, shudders out a breath as he leans forward. They sit there together, a bit of space between them. For how long they sit there, James doesn’t know, until finally Brett speaks again.

“What you did… I’m proud of you.” His voice is so _quiet._ “...I’m sorry, James.”

It's a weird revelation to have, and James's breath hitches. Brett had been mad at him, yeah, but not because he thought James was… was stupid, or selfish, or childish, even though he had been all of those things. No, he was mad because he knew it was going to _hurt_ in the end _._ All the terrible things he’s ever said to Brett, the times they’ve clashed, the times that Brett’s impatience got the better of him or James’s pride got the best of _him…_ they all pale in contrast, now, to every moment that Brett has ever been just behind him, giving him the gentle nudge to make it through the day.

Slowly, James leans his head against Brett’s shoulder. It’s only silent tears now, mostly gathered in his eyes like even now they’re still too stubborn to fall. He remembers how he used to try so hard to keep other people from seeing him cry, and that all feels so meager, so irrelevant. The ache in his chest won’t even fade a little. He wonders if he’ll have to live with this pain for however long he has left. Maybe forever. Maybe that’s his punishment.

Brett freezes, just briefly, and for a moment James wonders if he misjudged the situation, misjudged the contact he was allowed after breaking the rules the way he did. He starts to pull away, reaching up to swipe the tears out of his eyes with the heel of his hand.

But then. Then, slowly, Brett’s arm comes up and he hugs James tight against his side, pulls him back. Slowly, he starts rubbing his hand up and down against his shoulder, lets James lean back into him. It’s comforting, in some small way, and when James finally speaks it’s choked and ruined.

“I fucked up, Brett.”

He feels it as Brett lays his cheek down on the top of his head, as he pulls him even tighter against his side.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, but there’s no accusation in his tone. There’s only acknowledgement, and there’s love. Brett knows that it hurts, and he knows there’s nothing he can do to quell it, and so he holds James against himself and just lets him cry until there are no more tears left to be shed.

Brett never lets up, only keeps James pressed close against his side, gently rubs his arm, and James counts their breaths until they’re synced up, until the lights inside flicker off. The city’s still alive, unaware entirely of the two of them. Eventually Brett lifts his head again, but James doesn’t stop leaning on him; he’s trying to find the words to say what he wants to.

Eventually they come.

“Why,” James tries, and his voice hitches, “why do I keep losing all— all the things, the _people,_ that I fucking care about?”

He can feel Brett shaking his head a little, can feel how he sighs and rests his cheek back on the top of his head.

“That’s what life is, James,” he says softly.

James almost, _almost_ laughs at that.


	14. you and i collide. (epilogue)

Life moves on around him, but James feels stuck in the same place.

He only goes home that night despite Brett’s offers of his spare bedroom because Mishka needs to be fed. She jumps around at his feet when he closes the door behind himself, and he slowly sinks to the floor and holds her. The chasm in his chest feels too big for words, a black hole that keeps threatening to swallow him whole.

Mishka hops up onto the bed with him as he crawls into the sheets, settles down on top of his feet, and she lets out a wheezy dog sigh and flicks her ears once. She knows, somehow, and James knows that she knows, but it doesn’t quell the ache in his chest. He doesn’t sleep that night, just stares at the window while the pillow grows wet underneath his cheek.

He doesn’t know how to face the others, which is fine because it’s clear none of them know how to face him. When he walks into the Waffle Haus the next morning, it’s only out of a sense of obligation. He doesn’t want to do to anyone else what had to be done to Aleks, and he sits in the booth and stares at his hands and doesn’t order anything.

Trevor doesn’t say anything to him. He looks everywhere but at James, which is fine. James knows he doesn’t particularly deserve any of their friendships anymore, and though it hurts a little he accepts it willingly enough. Maybe one day they can repair what they had, but for now James feels too empty to care.

Joe, on the other hand, stops him when they all try to leave, pulls him aside.

“I… listen,” he says, and he sounds nervous. He’s got a pink plastic bag in his hand, with something black folded up inside. Brett and Trevor wait by the door, and James finds himself wishing that they wouldn’t. He doesn’t want to do this as a team. He doesn’t want them to be _kind_ to him, not on the very first day after. He just wishes he could be alone. “I know that things are… they’re gonna be tough, and there’s nothing we can do to help. I know that. But…”

James tries to go for a smile.

“It’s okay, man,” he says quietly. “I’ve just gotta… work through this, I think. Figure it out.”

Joe rubs at the back of his head with his free hand, and then holds out the bag.

“Here. I got this for you.”

James stares down at it, unsure, but Joe jostles it a little bit and so James takes it and looks inside curiously.

It almost makes him laugh, almost makes him cry in the same measure when he pulls a leather jacket out. It’s in his size, and it doesn’t look that far off from his original one, though this one has a cloth hood, and shinier buttons and zipper. He holds it between both hands, stares down at it for so long that Joe starts to shift from one foot to the other.

“I figured since, you know, your other one got ruined,” he explains nervously, gesturing. “You needed a new one. It’d be weird to see you without it, you know?”

James doesn’t know what to do with such a kindness, doesn’t know how he could ever repay it, so he just sniffs hard and then hooks his arm around Joe’s shoulders, pulls him into a hug. The motion knocks his hat to the ground, but James couldn’t care less, and neither could Joe, it seems. He just hugs James back tightly.

“Thank you,” James says into his hair, sincere and grateful. Joe leans away again, gives James just one light tap against his cheek. It’s almost a slap, but it’s too nice. James, for one moment, almost feels normal.

“You’re welcome,” Joe says, and grins at him before he swoops down to pick up his hat. James shrugs the jacket on, and while the leather is still a bit stiff from how new it is, it still fits perfectly. He flaps it a couple of times to let it settle, tries to give Joe as genuine a smile as he can manage. Joe grins back at him, tips his hat a little bit as he hurries after Brett and Trevor. Brett ducks down to say something to Joe as he passes, and James doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick up again to glance at him while Joe’s answering.

James slips his Post-It into his pocket and pretends he doesn’t notice.

Solitude is something he can probably get used to. James likes his privacy but he loves familiarity and camaraderie too, and a part of him misses it deeply. It’ll be lonely, but right now he feels like he has to keep to himself. He can barely look Trevor in the eyes, he ducks around every conversation that Brett tries to start with him. He hasn’t seen the others in a while, doesn’t try to actively seek them out. Joe’s really the only one he feels somewhat comfortable talking to, and even then he stays mostly silent in the mornings.

He eats breakfast so that he has something to do in the mornings, and after his reaps he spends most of his time back at his apartment. He plays with Mishka a lot, his only real solace in an otherwise uneventful afterlife. Every time she licks his hand, every time someone walks past his door in the hallway and she perks her head up, James feels that ache in his chest. He wonders if this is how Jordan felt, in those first few months when he had Ein. Mishka’s a bright spot in his life, but she reminds him every day of what he’s lost, and why he lost it. Why he lost _him._

It occurs to James on the fourth or fifth day that he must have the reaper version of depression. He feels a bit like he’s floating, does nothing more than go to breakfast, take someone’s soul, and go back to his apartment. He manages to take care of his plants, and the one that he dropped seems to be in better shape than he had expected it to be. A lot of the leaves are still brown, but there are buds growing up out of the stem that mean it could be okay soon.

It’s an existence he chooses willingly, and he knows that Aleks would be pissed at him if he could see him now, but he can’t _help it._ He doesn’t feel like he can do anything else.

“It’ll pass,” Brett tells him one morning, while James is staring at the ketchup to avoid eye contact with anyone. “It’ll be okay, James. Just work through it. We’re here with you.”

It’s a sweet gesture, it really is, but James just gives him an empty smile. He can work through it, but he’s got to do it on his own. He doesn’t know _why,_ though it might be out of shame if nothing else. How any of them could’ve forgiven him for lying, for breaking the rules, for doing _exactly_ what happened over twenty years ago with absolutely no regard to what would happen, for being _selfish—_

James wants to get over it. He does. He wants to be better than this. But it’s fucking _hard_.

He feels right back where he started, only with a nicer apartment and a dog again. Mishka gives him a reason to go outside, and maybe in that way Aleks is watching out for him. He takes Mishka out on walks, sweet talks her all the time, brushes her fur every day, gives her extra treats just because he can. He calls her pretty and she makes him smile when she wags her tail, and if nothing else he has one companion who doesn’t know what he’s done and doesn’t care.

The dog park is out of the question, but she enjoys their walks around the blocks surrounding his building. There’s one day that Trevor and Joe run into him, whether by accident or on purpose he doesn’t know, and they both seem to love her instantly. Joe especially takes to her; he crouches down and scruffs up her face, coos at her while her tail thumps wildly against James’s leg. Trevor gives her a few pets too, and it puts a smile on his face, but the two of them are awkward around each other, and avoid eye contact, and James thinks that maybe it’s better that way.

The only thing to do is get better. He owes Aleks that, if not himself.

And he tries, he really does. He tries to smile at breakfast, he tries to mix up his order and he tries to laugh when it’s appropriate. There are still moments where he goes to check his phone, expecting a text from Aleks, and it always fills his veins with an icy numbness that nearly sets him back all the way again. Brett never shows him the newspaper article about Aleks, and James wishes he had a word for how grateful he is for that. He never looks it up, and he hopes that Eddie and anyone else in Aleks’s life are still doing okay.

It’s two weeks later, mid-afternoon, and James almost feels like he could be normal again. He lays out on the couch in his bare feet and Mishka jumps up too, rests her whole body on his chest while he considers whether or not he wants to turn on the TV. It would do to distract himself, and he pets Mishka absently as he starts clicking through his options. She gives him a sharp whine and he hushes her, rubs just above her nose with his thumb until she quiets down.

“You’re okay, baby,” he says, and she huffs a breath at him. “Oh, hush. We’ll go for a walk in a little bit, okay?”

That gets him a wag of her tail and he smiles, scratches her behind her ears as he picks some shitty movie he’s never heard of. It’s an absolutely normal afternoon, and it’s shattered instantly by a sudden pounding on his door.

Mishka goes absolutely batshit, jumping off his chest so quickly that her nails leave sharp points of pain all over his stomach and chest. He howls more out of the shock of it than any real agony, and Mishka starts jumping at the door while someone shouts his name from outside.

“What the fuck!” James shouts, startled, doesn’t move up from his couch until he hears the damn lock click. “Yo, what the fuck—”

Trevor comes bursting in, hair wild and eyes huge, and he starts talking too fast; James can see his spare key in Trevor’s hand, and he immediately curses Brett in his head.

“James, dude, you have to come to the Haus,” Trevor says, and then yelps when Mishka jumps up and presses her paws against the tops of his knees. “Ow! Mishka, girl, _please,_ not right— James, come _on,_ we gotta go!”

”What the fuck, Trevor?” James says incredulously, still sitting down. Trevor makes a noise of intense frustration. “You can’t just fuckin’, fuckin’ break my fucking door down!”

“ _Get up_ , bitch!”

James is fucking _appalled._

“ _TREVOR_!”

Trevor manages to dissuade Mishka from immediately attacking his knees by giving her a bunch of very gentle swipes, and the whole time he only looks at James imploringly, gestures towards the door again.

“Dude, just, just _please_ come with me, okay? We’ve gotta go, _right now!_ ”

“Fine,” James says, relenting, throws his arms over his head as he stands up. “Fine, Jesus, you come into my apartment and you start fuckin’ shouting like a crazy person, what the fuck, Trevor…” He quickly starts to gather up his jacket, his socks and shoes, tugs them all on as fast as he can while Trevor tries to placate a still frantic Mishka by petting from her head to her tail. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but Trevor literally grabs him by the hand, interlocks their fingers and tugs him out of his apartment with more force than James was expecting. There’s a quick rush of motion while Trevor locks his apartment door for him (polite) and then sticks his spare key back up over the door (also polite) but then he’s practically dragging James down the hallway (the most impolite).

“Can you at least fucking tell me where the fire is?” James says, but Trevor just pulls him down the stairs until they’re taking them three or four at a time, all the way down to the first level and then suddenly they’re running out the lobby and into the street. James hasn’t run like this since… well, since he died, but Trevor just pulls him along until they’re practically sprinting down the street.

“Trevor—” he tries again, but Trevor just shakes his head and pulls harder, and James has no choice but to follow. They dodge their way past the people on the sidewalk, still holding hands the entire time, until they reach the Waffle Haus and James is literally gasping for air.

“Can you,” James says between heaves, “fucking tell me, what the _fuck_ is going on, Trevor?!”

“Just一” Trevor gags, supports himself on the side of the restaurant as he holds his stomach and coughs. “Just fuckin一 go, go inside, man.”

James is torn between moving to help and just saying _ewww_ at the top of his lungs when Trevor hocks a huge glob of spit onto the ground, but ultimately he opts for doing as he’s told. The bell rings as he darts inside, now sure that something terrible’s gone wrong. Maybe someone’s been replaced, or someone’s _disappeared_ all together, maybe someone’s hurt again, he doesn’t _know._ All he knows is that he’s searching for their little group until he catches Jakob’s wild curls and then he’s trying to get over there as fast as possible. They’re at a bigger table than usual, all of them clustered together.

“Someone wanna tell me why Trevor damn near _broke my fucking door down?_ ” he starts to demand, but his words die on his tongue as he reaches the table.

“Oh, James,” Brett says brightly, from where he has his arm slung loosely over the back of the chair behind the person sitting next to him, who looks up at James with wide eyes, with understanding settling there. “I’ve got good news.” He gestures towards his companion, beaming. “You are no longer the new guy.”

James’s mind goes blank. He only stands there, staggers back a little bit until Anna and Asher both grab his elbows to straighten him up again, and they’ve got twin grins on their faces. He can feel Trevor behind him now, having come in at some point, and James just shakes his head. It feels like a dream, feels like he’s unable to do anything but stare as he takes in the tattoos, the pretty brown eyes, the _white hair—_

“Hey,” Aleks says, and if he means it to come off as casual, he utterly and completely fails it.

“...hi,” James says weakly, staring at him. “Am. Am I dreaming?”

“You are not,” Brett replies easily, when it becomes clear that neither James nor Aleks are going to be able to say much. “I got a text from Geoff this morning saying that they just had _too many people_ on Natural Causes, and he was going to send someone our way. Their new guy is now our new guy.” He pats Aleks on the back a couple of times, but it’s almost tender. “What do you think? We have room on the morning shift, right?”

“What the fuck,” James says, feels like he might pass out. “What the fuck?”

Aleks stands up slowly, and now that he’s close enough James can see that his hair isn’t white, but a blond so platinum that it passes for such. When he’d died, Aleks’s hair had been that dark brown color, and without thinking James reaches out and runs his hand through it. It’s soft, as soft as it had been in life, and James runs his hand down to cup Aleks’s cheek. He’s warm, he’s _warm_. He’s there. He’s not a figment of James’s imagination. He’s _real._

“How the fuck,” he tries, but his voice dies halfway through. Aleks leans into the touch a bit, speaks quietly.

“I went into the house, and… and there was a guy there,” he says slowly. His eyebrows are still dark, and it almost gives him an ethereal look. “He had, like, glasses and a beard and when I got there he told me I had a choice. I could… I could move on to the afterlife or,” he hesitates, like he’s guilty, “or I could come back. And be like you.”

James lets out a watery laugh, shrill and completely stunned.

“You fucking idiot,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “Should’ve chose the afterlife.”

“I said I wanted to come back and he, he did this.” Aleks gestures towards his hair, and James trails the motion with his eyes before looking back down again. “Said it was a... a reminder.”

Whether it’s a reminder for Aleks or for James, he doesn’t know. James becomes hyper aware of the rest of the crew around him, and he clears his throat, rounds on Trevor immediately. Trevor’s got a huge grin on his face, and he only flinches a little when James starts jabbing him in the chest. From another seat, Joe lets out a laugh that’s bright and full of so much mirth that it gets James to smile, huge and infectious.

“You _piece of shit,_ ” he says to Trevor, but Trevor just holds up his hands. “You had me running here all concerned thinking that shit was _wrong!_ ”

“I had to get you here quick!” Trevor’s defending himself, but he doesn’t sound like he’s taking James’s fake-anger very seriously. James just pretends to glare at him, puffed out, but it quickly turns into an emotion that he can’t put a name to. Instead he gathers Trevor up in a quick hug and Trevor yelps a little, hugs him back more out of shock.

“Fuck you, Trevor,” James says, on his tiptoes so that he can press his face into Trevor’s neck. “I’m sorry.”

Trevor pats his back a little awkwardly.

“Go kiss your fucking boyfriend, loser,” he mutters into James’s ear, and James can tell that he’s blushing. He grabs Trevor by the face and squishes his cheeks up once before he whirls around again and _yells._ It’s a wordless sound, full of nothing but delight, and Aleks jumps a second before James wraps his arms around him and picks him up.

“James, what the fuck, put me down!” Aleks shouts, startled, but he’s laughing too and James sets him down on his feet again, really looks at him.

He’s dressed the same as he did when he was alive, looks the same except for his hair, and for the first time since he died, James feels like the luckiest fucker in the whole world. He just cups Aleks’s jaw and grins at him, feels how Aleks has taken a gentle hold of his wrists. He feels like he’s been given too much, that there’s someone up there who’s given him a gift he can never repay, but in this moment he couldn’t fucking care less.

“You’re really here,” he says, really looks Aleks in the eyes, and Aleks nods.

“I’m pretty sure I’m really here, yeah.” He sniffs once. “You gonna kiss me in front of all your friends or what, bitch?”

“Don’t call me a fuckin’ bitch, you bitch,” James tells him sternly, and then pulls him into a kiss that he hopes has fireworks lighting up behind his eyelids. James has never been about the PDA before but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t fucking _care,_ Aleks tastes the same and he’s here in front of him now.

“Get a room,” Jakob calls from the table, and Aleks laughs against his lips. James flips Jakob off without looking, and when the catcalling around them starts to rise again, he bumps his nose lightly against Aleks’s cheek, breathes in deep.

“I love you,” he says, quiet enough in the rabble of the restaurant that only Aleks can hear him. He remembers how he had regretted not saying it enough, and he knows his privacy is still a very real thing, but having Aleks here in front of him gives him a brief reprieve from that. He wants to shout it from the fucking rooftops.

Aleks smiles at him, crinkly eyed and happy, lets out his little huff of laughter.

“Dude, stop,” he says, and pulls James closer by the lapels of his new jacket. “I love you, too.”

“Okay, lovebirds,” Brett says loudly, and James looks over to find that Trevor’s taken the spot next to Brett, where Aleks had been sitting. Everyone else has settled into their own seats, but they leave two open towards the end. “We’re all fucking hungry, maybe save your joyous reunion for the bedroom, hmm?”

James lets out a loud, obnoxious sigh as he sits down, but Aleks just wiggles his eyebrows at Brett and says, “you trying to invite yourself?”

”You could not keep up with me if you tried,” Brett says, tone a very fake kind of sour; it’s ruined by the playful glint in his eyes, and from next to him Trevor ducks his head against his own chest and coughs awkwardly. Immediately everyone launches into conversation, some talking over each other, and underneath the table Aleks finds James’s hand and links their fingers together.

“Good to see you again, honey,” their waitress says, and he looks up at her. “You want the usual?”

James looks around at this weird little family he didn’t choose, and he thinks once again of his old life. He thinks of Seamus’s exhausted but sincere laugh, but also of sitting on the floor of Joe and Trevor’s apartment, playing video games into the night. He thinks of Jordan’s stubborn pride, the way he would always wrap an arm around his shoulders the way that Brett does, too. He thinks of their old friend group, as loud and rambunctious as this one is now, and he thinks of his mother, her tendency to call him out on his bullshit just as much as she offered comfort. He thinks of Ein, and he thinks of Mishka. He looks over at Aleks, with his white hair and sparkling eyes and his hand warm in James's, and in that moment James realizes that for what he got, it’s _good._

It’s not a replacement, and he doesn’t want it to be.

“Yeah,” he says, and he grins. “Yeah, I do.”

**_the end._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [if this fic had end credits, this would be the song playing over them.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w-Ng5muAAcg)
> 
> holy fuck. holy fuck!! i can't believe it's finished!!! this fic has been... it's been an absolute adventure from start to finish, and i'm honestly just so super emotional about its end. this is the longest thing i've ever written??? ever??? and i really hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it, and from the bottom of my heart i cannot thank everyone enough for giving it a chance. ♥ especially those of you who commented on EVERY CHAPTER, oh my gosh. ;-; i love you guys!!!!
> 
> super huge thanks to [hannah](http://archiveofourown.org/users/personalized_radio) who actually knew the ending like... probably three or four chapters in and has kept that secret locked TIGHT and has also been a cheerleader and also has yelled at me MANY times about this fic and how much it was hurting her heart :'D thank u friend ♥
> 
> and the biggest thanks to my wife, who has sat on our couch and in the car and at restaurants and patiently listened to me work this fic through out loud, who has been a pivotal influence in how a lot of this fic shifted direction over the course of my writing it, and is absolutely my favorite person in the whole world. ♥ ♥ ♥
> 
> i don't think this is the last we'll see of this verse, but i may give it a little nap :'D if you have any questions about it, my [askbox](http://myriadus.tumblr.com) is always open!!! 
> 
> and if you made it this far: thank you thank you thank you!


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